


Ne Quaesieris, Non Dico

by The_Arkadian



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Canonical Character Death, Fenders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:32:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 45,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning late one night, Fenris finds an unconscious blond man sprawled upon his bed bearing the unmistakeable signs of torture and slavery. Nursing him back to health, he finds himself growing attached to this new friend; but how long can Anders hide his true nature from this elf who seems to hate mages so much?</p><p>An AU in which Anders escapes from the Gallows shortly after being held in solitary for a year and never joined the Wardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fugitive

He flees into the darkness, heart pounding, back aflame, sick and wounded, half-starved and more terrified than he can ever remember being in his life. The rain drenches him to the skin in minutes, ice-cold as it plasters his hair to his head and his thin shirt to his skin. He doesn't know if it's blood or rainwater running down his back. 

Shouts from behind; they've discovered him gone already, templars spilling out of the doors into the rain and the night. He doesn't have time. He knows he won't get far in this state. 

He slips on the rain-slick steps of the Chantry, plummeting headlong down, unable to check his fall. He sprawls upon the cold, hard stones, dazed; he rolls to his feet, bleeding and unsteady. The sound of armoured men pounding down the steps high above spurs him into movement; staggering a little, he picks a direction at random and runs. 

He's free, but he has no idea where he is. Town houses, some of them mansions, loom out of the darkness on either side of the street. The noble quarter of the city, he'd guess; he needs to find somewhere to hide, where he can hole up until the magebane wears off and he can heal up. 

He stumbles, bracing himself against the wall of a house. He glances at it; old, dilapidated, abandoned; its owner long gone, likely dead. The perfect place for a half-dead mage to hide awhile perhaps. His phylactery is smashed; they'll have to hunt him on foot the hard way. He just has to lie low for a while. 

He finds a broken window and manages to squeeze through the broken frame. The room is dark, silent; the air heavy with dust kicked up from his tumble onto the musty old carpet. He picks himself up and stumbles further into the house. 

Mummified corpses are scattered all through the house. He wonders what in the Void happened here, in the small part of his brain not preoccupied with immediate survival. He finds a set of stairs leading upwards and heads up. 

The rush of adrenaline from his giddy escape is wearing off already, leaving him shaking and sick as he stumbles into a bedroom. He makes it as far as the bed before his knees give way and he collapses face-down onto the soft covers. 

His last thoughts flee him as everything goes black. 

***

Fenris is tired, footsore and aching. The cold rain does nothing to improve his mood, already souring now he is away from the bright lights of the tavern and the company of his friends. He should be glad, he thinks; they killed fifteen slavers today. But victory tastes like ashes and bitterness in his mouth - or perhaps rough cheap wine, drunk in vain hopes of washing away the memory of the pens in the caves and the unfortunate remains of the slaves they'd arrived too late to save. 

He lets himself into the ruined old mansion that has been his home here in Kirkwall for three years now. Somehow it has never felt so lonely as it does tonight. He snorts to himself at the maudlin turn of his thoughts. He climbs the stairs towards his room, ignoring the corpses scattered around the landing. 

He halts barely three paces into the room as his eyes fall upon the still figure sprawled face-down across the foot of the bed. Instantly, his sword is in his hand as he approaches the bed, but the figure doesn’t move; as he comes to stand over the unconscious blond man, he realises why. The man is near-starved, the back of his shirt soaked with rainwater and blood. He doesn't stir as Fenris lays down his sword and turns him over then slowly peels open the tattered remains of the sodden shirt.

The elf recoils with a muttered oath. He can count the man’s ribs, but it is the sight of the burns, contusions and lacerations across those ribs - some half-healed, some fresh and still raw and bleeding, some that look inflamed and infected - that have him swearing; the clear signs of torture that has taken place over many months. The thin, bony wrists are mottled dark with bruises and old blood from months spent shackled, as are the ankles.The unconscious man might have been one of those unfortunate wretches that Fenris, Hawke and their companions had been too late to save - except this man’s chest still stirs yet with breath, with life.

He doesn’t stop to wonder how this escaped slave has managed to find his way to Fenris’ home. He is clearly in need of help. 

Fenris strides to the bathroom and sets the bathing pool set into the floor to filling, thankful once again for the dwarven plumbing the mansion’s previous owner had had the foresight and riches to have installed. As hot water begins to steam the air, the elf lights candles before fetching clean towels, then returns to the bedroom to light more candles before setting out a healing kit and a couple of healing potions upon a small table he drags over to stand beside the bed. Then he strips the tattered rags from the unconscious man’s body.

The blond man is alarmingly light as Fenris carried him into the bathing chamber. He lays him down upon a towel beside the pool then checks the temperature of the water before turning the taps off and stripping off his own clothes. Then he steps into the water before gathering the unconscious man in his arms and lowering him into the water.

Still, the man does not stir as Fenris gently bathes him, dirt and blood swirling away into the water as he sponges his limp body clean then washes the long, dirty blond hair. It had been hard to tell the man’s age beneath the dirt and the scraggly beard, but once shaved and clean it is easy to see that he is perhaps somewhere in his mid to late twenties - certainly not much more than thirty at most. A single gold hoop adorns his left ear; a curious vanity left by his captors. Fenris wonders why. A sign of ownership perhaps?

Once back in the bedroom, Fenris carefully dries the man then himself before donning a clean tunic and pants. He sets to work, smearing salve over whip cuts, burns and bruises before applying dressings, poultices, bandages. He checks the man’s body carefully for any sign of a brand of ownership but finds none; he frowns however at the purple bruises upon the unconscious man’s hips and the heat now radiating from his spare frame, his forehead hot and feverish to touch. Fenris purses his lips, the frown that has not left his face since discovering the wounded man only deepening.

Fenris has no clothes that would fit his erstwhile guest; the man is taller than Fenris. The elf sighs wordlessly, then cradles the man with one arm, tilting his head back and his mouth open before trickling a healing potion past those slack, pale lips a little at a time as the man swallows reflexively until all the dark red liquid is gone. A second potion goes the way of the first, and then Fenris gently lays him in his own bed and draws the covers up to the pale chest, now swathed in clean white bandages. He sits back, unable to do anything more for his patient.

Tired, Fenris draws a chair over to sit vigil over the unconscious man, resolving to speak to Hawke about this in the morning. At some point, watching passes into sleep as the night draws on and the other man does not stir.

***

By morning, Fenris’ guest is tossing and turning feverishly; it is his quiet, faint moaning that draws the elf from sleep, starting up in alarm with one hand reaching for his sword before he recalls the events of the previous night. 

He leans over the feverish man and frowns at the sweat beading his brow as his head rolls upon the pillow, another pained moan escaping his pale lips as he clutches fitfully at the covers. The elf trails his fingers across the man’s forehead then snatches them back as the man’s eyes suddenly snap open. They are the hue of dark honey, a rich amber flecked with brown; they stare through Fenris, glazed and fever-bright.

“Please... please don’t hurt me,” he slurs, his voice a weak whisper. “I’ll be good, Ser, I promise! Please don’t shut me away in the dark again!”

Fenris recoils, swallowing hard, before he leans over the man again. “You are safe,” he tells him quietly. “No-one will lock you in the dark again or hurt you.”

“Safe?” The amber eyes blink at him drowsily. “Safe....” 

The man’s eyes slowly drift closed again and he gives a small sigh before settling into a deeper sleep. Fenris exhales slowly before turning away, a little shaken.

***

He is afraid to leave the man. The fever rages, unabated, and Fenris fears for the man’s life. There is a fire in his skin, and nothing Fenris can do seems to abate it. The man rambles at first - pleas, begging for Fenris not to hurt him, promising to behave. Begging not to be locked in the dark again. He whimpers and moans in his sleep, but gradually he grows quieter and quieter until an unnerving stillness settles over him, his breathing shallow and harsh. Fenris is unable to rouse him, not even to take a sip of water, and as evening draws on his face seems impossibly gaunt.

The elf passes a sleepless night, afraid that each breath the sick man draws may be his last. Yet morning comes and still the man clings to life, stubborn.

Fenris still does not know the man’s name.


	2. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Hawke learn the blond stranger's name.

He drifts slowly back towards consciousness. The bed is soft, warm; his body is tired, aching, heavy. He feels as though he has been ill a long time. He doesn’t move; he has the distinct feeling that he _mustn’t_ move. He is aware of pain waiting, lurking, ready to flare into agony at an unwary moment. Someone is arguing, their voice angry; the voice is vaguely familiar, a low baritone rumble. He dreamed of that voice, he thinks.

Another voice answers - high, light, calm. A woman’s voice, he thinks. He doesn’t recognise it.

As full consciousness and awareness reasserts itself, he realises he has no idea where he is. Not that tiny stone cell beneath the Chantry where he had been incarcerated in the dark for far too long; the warmth of sunlight is playing across his closed eyelids, for a start. Wherever he is, he is in a warm, comfortable bed, no manacles about his wrists and ankles, no collar about his throat. His pain is quiescent, no more than a dull aching throb in his limbs, across his ribs; a slow burn across his back, itching and uneasy. He lies still, afraid to reawaken the sleeping dragon of pain coiled beneath his skin.

The two voices are still arguing - about him, he suddenly realises.

“Fenris, he needs a healer!” The woman, calm and insistent.

“No!” replies the man - Fenris, he presumes, his deep voice vehement. “No magic. I will not permit it.”

“Fenris, you must see reason,” argues the woman. “He’s hurt, sick - look, I know you don’t like mages, but -”

“Hawke, what I feel for mages goes far beyond mere dislike!” hisses Fenris, vitriol practically dripping from every syllable. “Mages cannot be trusted and I will not allow one near him!”

_Oh shit._ Whoever this Fenris is, it seems he has quite the extreme hatred of mages. 

“Fenris,” replies Hawke in a quiet, reasonable tone. “How long has he been like this?”

“I found him four days ago,” replies Fenris, his voice quieter. “I do not know how long he lay here before we returned from the coast.”

“It’s a wonder he’s not dead already,” says Hawke.

“He is stubborn,” answers the man. “He endured slavery long enough to escape.”

“Fenris, please let me find a healer for him,” asks Hawke softly. 

“Who - some friend of your pet witch?” Fenris’ laugh is unpleasant and mocking.

“Fenris! Merrill is my friend.” Hawke’s voice is suddenly sharp.

“She is not mine.” Fenris’ voice is bitter and cold. “I thought I had left such things behind me when I fled Danarius, but no. I cannot dictate to you who you choose as friends, Hawke, but that does not mean I have to approve of them - particularly not ones who practice blood magic. I want no part of it, Hawke - you know my feelings on the matter.”

_Well, whoever he is, he may hate mages but at least we can agree on the subject of blood mages,_ he thinks with a shudder. 

“Fenris, please see reason,” argues Hawke. “I have contacts, I can find someone else. You know he’s sick, he needs help - more than you or I could give him.”

“What of your sister?” asks Fenris suddenly. 

“Beth?” exclaims Hawke, then sighs. “Fenris, we both know she can’t heal anything worse than a minor cut or stubbed toe. She could no more heal infected wounds than - than I could!”

Fenris gives an exasperated sigh. “You must surely know some healer who does not use magic.”

“Look... alright, I’ll see what I can do,” concedes Hawke with a sigh. “I’ll drop by later with food, alright?”

“Very well,” rumbles Fenris. “That would be... acceptable.”

Hawke grumbles something under her breath, then there is the sound of booted feet moving towards the bed and she exclaims, startled. “Fenris, I think your guest is awake.”

_Shit. Rumbled._ He opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the brilliant sunlight falling full on his face; he turns his face away, wincing.   
There is an elf leaning over him, silvery white tattoos covering his dusky skin in delicate curves and lines. The elf is regarding him with intent green eyes, cool fingers gently brushing his forehead.

“You are awake at last. How do you feel?”

“Where am I? Who are you?” Maker, is that his voice - that weak whisper, cracking at the end?

“My name is Fenris, and you are in the home of my former master. He is...” A wry smile twists the corner of Fenris’ mouth. “...no longer in residence. You are safe. Can you tell me your name?”

“Anders,” he answers quietly.

A woman steps into his line of sight; tall, raven-black hair cut into a bob, her blue eyes piercing and intent although her expression is warm and friendly. “You gave Fenris and I quite a scare, you know,” she remarks affably. “You sound Ferelden - refugee from the Blight?”

“You could say that,” Anders agrees. He frowns slightly. “You sound Ferelden too.”

She snorts good-humouredly. “From Lothering, actually. You?”

“Kinloch,” he replies. That much, at least, isn’t a lie.

“How do you feel?” asks Fenris, his voice concerned.

“Weak,” confesses Anders. “My head aches. Actually, I ache all over,” he adds with a wince. He shifts on the bed without thinking and then gasps as suddenly fiery agony licks across his back and down his spine, his vision whiting out briefly. He lets out an involuntary scream as his back arches off the bed. He can feel the magebane burning in the whip cuts, stinging, and it feels as though every bruise, every cut, every burn is on fire.

He is dimly aware of Hawke’s voice, though he can’t make sense of the words. Hands are gently turning him on his side, and then he abruptly vomits. Whether from the magebane he’s been forced to ingest daily for the Maker knows how long, or merely from the pain, he has no idea.

Hands holding him over a basin, gently brushing his hair back from his face. He can only gasp for breath as he retches until it is done, not much more than bile to come up in truth. He lets his head drop, limp and spent as he pants.

Someone is cradling him gently, a cool hand brushing the sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. A cup is pressed to his lips; he gulps water thankfully. He manages to open his eyes with an effort; Fenris is staring down at him, concern and worry in those jade-green eyes.

He tries to speak, but no words come. He closes his eyes, and mercifully consciousness flees.

***

Fenris watches over the blond man as he lies insensate in his bed. Anders lies upon his stomach, head turned to one side. He has stirred perhaps a handful of times to retch, dropping back into exhausted sleep almost immediately afterwards. His fever has returned, though twice he has opened his eyes to stare up at Fenris, a faint flicker of recognition in his eyes before he passes out again.

Hawke returns some hours later with a healer - a herbalist, she informs the elf in a terse whisper as the man bends over the unconscious blond and shakes his head with a disapproving tut as he removes the bandages to stare at the bloodied mess of Anders’ back. He cleans Anders’ wounds carefully, the blond man making no sound save a sharp inhaled gasp of breath now and then when the healer needs to lance an infected cut or burn. The blond man’s silence is more worrying than the faint moans he had made the previous evening as he tossed and turned in fever dreams, rambling nonsense to himself.

The healer dresses the cleaned wounds with poultices before winding clean, white linen bandages about Anders’ limbs and torso. He turns to his bag and calmly measures out several pouches of herbs. “These are tisanes to strengthen his blood, heal the infection and bring down his fever,” he instructs; Fenris pays diligent attention as the healer explains how to prepare them, how much, how often.

Hawke pays the healer, who declares he will return in three days, with instructions to send for him if Anders should worsen in the meantime. He does not ask how the blond man came by such injuries, for which both Hawke and Fenris are grateful.

When the healer leaves, Anders is resting peacefully, his breathing deeper and more even. Hawke stands beside his bed and stares down at the sleeping man, frowning thoughtfully.

“My... thanks,” says Fenris awkwardly after a while. Hawke waves the thanks away as though they were irrelevant; the elf frowns, but says nothing as Hawke continues to study Anders’ sleeping face.

“I wonder who he is,” she ponders. “He sounded educated - did you notice? And his hands - he’s certainly never worked in a field. A scribe’s hands, perhaps. Or maybe some minor nobleman’s son.”

“Whoever he is, the slavers evidently did not care,” replies Fenris with a shrug. “Nor that their maltreatment of him would likely diminish his value as a slave. Their abuse of him took place over months, from the looks of his older injuries.”

“They were trying to break him,” muses Hawke sadly as she reaches down to stroke a little of the long dark blond hair away from Anders’ face. Fenris has a sudden, irrational urge to slap her hand away from the sleeping man; he does no such thing, though he frowns - as much for his own strange reaction as for Hawke’s statement.

“They came close to killing him,” he replies darkly. “We should make inquiries. Likely there is a nest of slavers concealed somewhere close nearby. Or perhaps he was sold to some degenerate noble for their... amusement.” His lip twitches in a brief snarl.

Hawke glances at him, and there’s an understanding look in her eyes. She knows. Oh, not everything; there is much of what happened to him at Danarius’ hands that he has never breathed a word of, likely never will; but somehow Hawke has always understood the rage and pain that he fears he will never be free of. It’s why she always calls on him without question when there are slavers to deal with. She doesn’t question his murderous rage; she’s a silent strength standing beside him. Always has been, right from that fateful day when she took down the men who had been hunting him and in turn he’d thrown his lot in with her.

Sometimes, he thinks he loves her for it. Like this moment, when he tells her they should hunt down the slavers that have so very nearly killed Anders; a man neither of them knows, only that his suffering at their hands is marked all over his emaciated body - and that is all Fenris needs to know. Hawke doesn’t argue. She nods, understanding, and says only that she will speak to Varric.

“We’ll find them, Fenris,” she promises - and the elf has no doubt that they will.

He sits with Anders after she has gone, and silently promises the sleeping man that there will be retribution for what was done to him.


	3. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain and nightmares do not make for restful sleep.

It is almost surprising how swiftly Fenris finds himself adjusting to a new normal. Anders sleeps until Fenris awakens him for his next dose of medicine, rearranges the pillows so that the blond man is a little more comfortable, and then Anders drifts to sleep again. Four hours later, he wakes him again for more medicine. He manages to coax a little of the broth Hawke had brought with her into the sick man; though Anders retches afterwards, still he seems to keep a little down, and Fenris takes heart from this.

Anders sleeps heavily between doses of medicine, though Fenris is startled awake when the blond man suddenly begins to scream in the middle of the night. His brands blazing into life, the elf surges up from his chair and casts around for the source of the sound until he realises that Anders is writhing in the throes of some nightmare. It is pain that finally wakes Anders from his dream, and his screams of fear become a cry of pain as his body spasms in agony. He grits his teeth, panting hard; it is several long minutes before he is capable of swallowing the tea Fenris brings him, and the first few mouthfuls come back up almost immediately. 

Anders apologises weakly when he is capable of speech, the tea and the healing potion Fenris brings him finally dulling the pain enough for his back to slowly relax from its tense rictus of pain. Fenris says nothing. His earliest memories are of pain, but there was no-one to bring him tea or healing potions, to hold him as he vomited from sheer pain, to gently hold him as his body was racked with agony that only slowly released him from its grip. But he can do this for Anders, who is suffering now, even as the blond man weakly apologises for stealing the elf's bed.

When Anders begins to weakly whimper in his sleep, sometime in the early hours of the morning, Fenris climbs into the bed with him and holds him gently until he calms. He wakes in time to wash, change his clothes and eat before he has to wake Anders for his next dose. If the blond man remembers anything of the dreams and pain of the night before, he says nothing. He takes a little more broth, keeping a little more down this time.

Fenris takes heart from this.

The next two days pass the same way; Anders sleeping between doses of medicine, waking in a little less pain each time. Fenris sleeps in the chair the first night, waking when Anders whimpers with pain or a bad dream. 

Fenris remembers his own nightmares. He climbs into bed with Anders again and holds him until morning.

The next night, he does not sleep in the chair but instead holds Anders gently as he slumbers. Anders does not wake that night; sometime towards dawn, Fenris awakens and realises the blond man's fever has broken. 

The third day, the healer comes by with Hawke. She has brought more broth. The healer changes Anders' dressings, proclaiming himself pleased with how Anders' wounds are healing. The blond man manages to stay awake as the healer finishes, slipping into a peaceful sleep soon after the man has gone.

“He's looking better,” remarks Hawke, gesturing at the sleeping man. Fenris hums agreement.

“He did not throw up at all yesterday,” he rumbles quietly. Their voices are low so as not to awaken Anders. 

“Varric's been making some inquiries. Nothing yet, but he'll keep trying.” She glances at Anders. “Has he… said anything? About what happened to him?”

Fenris ponders telling her of the things Anders screamed in the throes of the nightmare. Some of those things he feels he has no right to speak of; there are things Fenris dreams of that he will never share with another living soul. But there are some things it would be well for Hawke to know.

“He is afraid of the dark,” he says quietly. “And I believe he was held a prisoner alone.” His frown deepens. “For many months. Possibly a year.”

Hawke sucks in her breath with a sympathetic hiss, and Fenris nods.

“Poor bastard,” she remarks. 

“His pain appears less. I believe the medicine is helping,” remarks Fenris.

“Do you think he'll recover enough to talk soon?” Hawke asks.

“Perhaps,” the elf shrugs. 

They speak of other things; this and that. She thinks she has maybe half of the money she needs to buy a place on Varric's brother's expedition and mentions a job for Aveline. She promises to come by in a couple of days to see how they're both doing. Fenris thanks her awkwardly for her assistance and she waves him off with a friendly grin, much as she always does.

Anders sleeps for several hours after she has gone.

***

He wakes suddenly with a gasp then bites his lip against the burning pain that stabs through his limbs and down his back, panting through the waves of pain until they subside. It's not so bad tonight, thankfully, but his stomach still gives a small, queasy lurch.

The arm flung about his waist tightens slightly and he freezes, mind blanking for a moment in panic. Then there is a low, incoherent rumble from behind him and he allows himself to slowly relax as he recalls he is no longer in that cold, dark cell. The body pressed up against his is warm, not clad in cold templar armour. _Fenris. The elf's name is Fenris,_ he reminds himself.

He doesn't know how long he's been here, drifting in and out of dreams and nightmares, each time having to remind himself he's not back in that tiny cell, chained and broken and sick, half out of his mind from pain and fear. Things are a little clearer now, but much of the past few days are hazy. 

He's not sure whether to be alarmed or reassured by the elf's arm around his waist. It pins him to the bed – but then he's hardly in any fit state to get up and wander around. The elf seems to mean him no harm, though he wonders how that would change if Fenris knew what he really was. He has drifted awake a few times to hear the elf and the woman ( _Hawke_ , his mind supplies helpfully) talking quietly – and it hasn't taken him long to realise the depth of hatred the elf holds for mages. It was frankly unnerving to hear the elf casually talk of the last group of slavers they killed, he and Hawke quietly laughing about the terrified look upon the Tevinter magister's face as Fenris ripped the woman's heart right out of her chest and then expound on how he would do that to his own former master when finally the man should show his face. Anders had drifted back into an uneasy sleep, neither the elf nor the woman aware he'd overheard him; his nightmares that night had had an unpleasant new element – in addition to the usual horrific reminders of what the templars had done to him and the usual dreams of being held down whilst they branded him, he had also been tormented by visions of the elf pinning him down then plunging his hand into Anders' chest, ripping open his rib cage to crush the mage's still-beating heart before his eyes.

Tonight's dream has been a variant on that, except with Fenris whispering how he was going to rip Anders' heart out right after Hawke got through with making him Tranquil. He can still feel the elf's fingers digging into his chin as his head is forced back; still feel the heat of the brand as it descends towards his forehead.

He can't help it; a frightened whimper escapes his lips before he can bite down upon his lip and stifle any further cry.

Fenris is awake in an instant, leaning over him. “Anders? Are you in pain?” His voice is quiet, low, filled with concern for him.

“Bad dream,” he manages to gasp.

Fenris sighs. “Ah, yes. I remember those,” he murmurs quietly. “You are safe here. Those who hurt you cannot touch you now.”

Anders swallows hard. “They'll come for me again, I know they will,” he whispers. “They always do.”

Fenris lifts himself upon one elbow and stares down at him. “They… have hunted you? You have escaped before?”

“Yes,” nods Anders as he slowly rolls onto his back, biting back a hiss as a warning flare of pain lances through the slowly healing cuts that criss-cross the skin of his back. “They always catch me, and the punishment is worse every time.”

Fenris regards him gravely. “I understand what it is to be hunted,” he nods. “My master still sends his dogs after me. I have slaughtered every single one but still they come.”

“You were a slave?” Anders asks quietly; Fenris simply nods.

“You wondered why I helped you, perhaps?” It is Anders' turn to nod; the elf smiles slightly. “I recognised the signs of a slave who has been beaten, the marks of manacles and collar. I could not turn away one who had taken his own freedom as I had.” He pats Anders' shoulder gently. “Do not fear. I will not allow those hunting you to take you again.”

“I'd sooner die than let them take me back there,” Anders vows. 

“The only ones who will die will be the dogs who think to hunt us,” growls Fenris; he bares his teeth in a feral grin, and Anders has no doubt that the elf means exactly what he says.

“You're really quite terrifying, you know,” murmurs Anders. 

“You do not know the half of it,” replies Fenris dourly. “My master made of me a living weapon, and I shall use that against him. One day I shall have killed enough of his dogs that he himself will be obliged to bestir himself in person – and on that day I shall rip his heart out of his chest as I stare into his eyes!” His lips curl in a snarl as he closes his hand into a fist; and then, to Anders' utter astonishment, the silvery-white tattoos upon Fenris' hand erupt in brilliant blue-white light.

The light hurts his eyes, too long deprived of light, too used to the dark. He flinches away, his low cry becoming a hoarse scream as pain lances through his body at the incautious movement. In an instant, the light dies and the elf is regarding him contritely. “Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you,” he murmurs. He reaches a hand out tentatively to touch Anders' arm.

“Don't touch me!” The cry is blurted from Anders' lips without thought; his skin is sensitive, painful where the whip scars are yet healing.

“I will not,” agrees the elf, chastised, as he draws away from Anders, his ears drooping a little. “You are in pain.”

“No, I _like_ screaming for no good reason!” Anders snaps back tersely. “It's my absolute favourite thing right up there with nightmares and t-” He shuts his mouth before he can finish blurting out the word _templars_.

“Forgive me,” murmurs the elf. “I will fetch you a potion.”

Anders says nothing. 

The elf fetches him an elfroot potion, holding it carefully as Anders swallows. It tastes cloying yet bitter, the syrupy liquid clinging to his tongue, but the pain soon dulls, thankfully. He rolls onto his side, his back to the elf, and closes his eyes as he waits to fall asleep.

The elf turns away, curling up on the opposite side of the bed. Anders is acutely aware of the cold space at his back; he tries to ignore it.

He misses the touch of Fenris' arm about his waist as he finally drifts asleep once more.


	4. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders' recovery continues slowly, and he makes new friends.

The elf’s friends - the woman, Hawke, and the dwarf who accompanies her a few days later - are perplexed. There is no word from any of their contacts about a slaver gang operating out of Hightown; Anders overhears them talking when they think he is sleeping. 

The dwarf, Varric, calls him “Blondie”. He has a nickname for all of Hawke’s friends, it seems; Anders learns them all, long before he meets any of them. Merrill, the blood mage Fenris hates so much, is Daisy. Hawke’s sister is Sunshine. There is a woman Varric calls “Red” who seems to be one of the Guard. There is Rivaini, and Chantry Boy  (Anders hates the sound of him simply from the name even though he knows nothing of the man than that) - and Fenris himself is Broody. 

Hawke does not have a nickname. Anders wonders about that. 

Fenris’ nickname suits him, though the mage would never dare admit that aloud. He _does_ brood - though behind the customary scowl there is often a thoughtful look; sometimes a wry smile, when he thinks no one is watching. 

Or when Hawke and he share a private joke. 

Anders doesn't think Fenris is aware of how his face lights up when he speaks of Hawke, or the wistful glances he casts at the door when she has gone. He's pretty certain the woman herself has no idea of the effect she has on the elf.

Anders prefers not to think too hard on the effect Hawke’s smiles have on him either. He's a red-blooded male and she's a beautiful woman - but he's also a wanted apostate with the Chantry on his heels and the sentence of the brand or the noose hanging over his head when they eventually catch up to him. 

And he knows they're still hunting him. Hawke has mentioned that Templar patrols are more frequent these days, particularly in Hightown. Varric confides that Hawke is afraid to bring her sister near Fenris’ mansion.

Anders knows it's his fault. 

His slow recovery frustrates him. He knows he could heal himself easily if he but dared reach for his magic, but with so many Templars about it would be suicide. He may as well hang out a sign and welcome mat for the Knight Commander herself and have done with it. And then, too, there is Fenris to consider. 

The tattooed elf is easy on the eyes, there's no denying it. The gender of his bed partners has never factored highly in Anders’ consideration; he has bedded and been bedded by both men and women and has no preference for one over the other. As Anders’ health slowly returns, there have been a couple of awkward mornings when he has woken to a particular... _morning issue_ that perhaps is only the natural consequence of sleeping in such close proximity to such a handsome specimen of elfhood night after night. Embarrassing, then, that the elf has such a hatred of mages. 

There have been a few mornings when Anders has awoken to the unmistakable evidence of the elf's own red-blooded virility poking him in the back. Any ideas he may have had that perhaps the elf might be interested in _him_ were dashed from the outset when the elf had sleepily moaned Hawke’s name - and then upon realising it was the supposedly-sleeping Anders’ hair he had nuzzled into, Fenris had leapt up as though the bed were suddenly full of snakes and fled for the bathing chamber. He had crept back later, sliding back into the bed without a word as Anders pretended to sleep. 

Well. Perhaps it had been for the best he found out Fenris didn’t swing that way before he could say or do something that would undoubtedly embarrass them both. 

It does make it more awkward when he wakes up from a dream of the elf to find himself achingly hard. He says nothing, merely lying still as he thinks hard about anything at all other than the nearly-naked elf curled against his back, deep in slumber; and eventually the urge passes. 

***

His recovery progresses - slowly but steadily. Two weeks after first collapsing upon Fenris’ bed, Anders is able to sit up in bed and eat. He’s able to get out of bed a few days after that, though he needs Fenris’ support and help to get around. He hadn’t been able to fully appreciate just how badly injured and sick he was at the point he escaped, but really it's a wonder he's alive at all. The whip cuts have scarred, which is galling; he knows that if not for the magebane and if he'd dared use his magic, there'd be barely any scarring at all. But there it is; by the time the magebane has worked its way out of his system, it's too late for magic – and in any case, Templars aside, he is terrified of revealing to the elf his true nature. Fenris has been nothing but kind and gentle to him, patient with his slow recovery, and Anders is loath to see that fierce hatred that crosses the elf's face when he speaks of mages be turned upon him. The white-haired warrior has been friendly towards Anders, and he in turn – starved of company and simple friendship for so long – cannot help but respond to it.

He has become, dare he say it, fond of the prickly elf. He has learned his ways and moods, his dry humour, his taciturn nature. Anders by contrast has always been talkative – his tongue has led him into trouble as often as it's gotten him out – and once he is capable of staying awake for more than a few minutes here and there, they begin to slowly converse. 

They have shared experiences in common; years in slavery, imprisoned. Fenris has no memory of the time before Danarius carved the lyrium into his flesh, and Anders – well, he can hardly share that from the age of twelve he has grown up within the confines of the Circle. But they can share tales of their experiences of freedom – Anders of his escapes, Fenris of his time since leaving Tevinter.

They have so much in common that it pains Anders to hear Fenris in his cups ranting about the evils of magic and those who wield it. Invariably, on those nights when Fenris has brought out a few bottles from the wine cellar and they have shared a drink, as he becomes more inebriated the elf's mood sours and his thoughts turn to his old master. They share moments of camaraderie together and Anders finds himself longing to finally confide what he truly is – and then Fenris' mood turns and Anders retreats into himself and silence.

If Fenris questions Anders' silence during such evenings, he assumes it is merely sympathetic respect for the elf's experiences and sufferings at the hands of his former master and his magister friends. 

***

Anders realises early on that Fenris and Hawke have assumed he is some minor nobleman’s son. It is an easy masquerade for Anders to play - it explains his obvious education and his lack of even the most basic skills. He cannot even use flint and steel to light the fire (and why should he, when he could call up a flame as easy as thought?) and the art of cooking is beyond him. Lying abed – and later, sitting next to the fire that Fenris has painstakingly shown him how to light – Anders keeps himself occupied and useful by teaching Fenris how to read and write. Varric brings him the occasion scribing work, as does Hawke; they both bring him books. Varric, it transpires, is quite the prolific writer of pulp novels – they are trashy, low-brow fare, for the most part, but amusing enough. Anders gets to read all the dwarf's latest works – Varric employs him as a proofreader and declares him far better than the idiot he'd employed previously. Anders begins to recognise certain characters in the books – the broody, taciturn, tattooed elf; the dashing Hawke, rogue and hero of the common people; her suave, smooth-talking dwarf companion.

A new character appears – the tattooed elf has rescued a tall, willowy blond nobleman from the clutches of evil slavers. As Anders reads the impossibly-romanticised description of himself and the racy passages in which Varric's pen describes his “smouldering honey-eyed glances of secret longing” for the broody elven warrior, he decides not to share _this_ particular story with Fenris. And to be more careful when Varric is around. 

(Smouldering? Secret longing? Maker, surely not? He is merely grateful. Isn't he?)

Once a week, once Anders is well enough to be left for a few hours, Fenris departs for an evening to a tavern in Lowtown to drink with Varric, Hawke and their other friends. Anders looks forward to the day he is finally well enough to join them; and two months after he escaped to freedom, Fenris finally agrees he is well enough to attempt the journey. 

The journey there takes longer than he anticipated. Hawke and Varric come to fetch him – the dwarf bringing new clothes for the occasion, suitable for being seen in public, and – of all things – a walking cane. Anders frowns at it, certain he will not need _that_ \- but before they have even left Hightown, he is glad of it – and of Fenris' solicitous hand at his elbow when he stumbles. Nonetheless, it is made clear to him just how far he has yet to go in his recovery simply for how exhausted he feels by the time they reach the Hanged Man. It is with a sense of accomplishment that he finally takes his seat at the table, between Hawke and Fenris, and Varric sets a glass of wine before him.

He is introduced finally to the people he has only known through the pages of Varric's books and the mentions by Hawke and Fenris during conversation. “Red” turns out to be a gruff but friendly red-haired Ferelden Guardswoman named Aveline. Merrill, the Dalish blood mage, is a surprisingly sweet and charming if naive woman – not at all what he'd expected. He is quite enchanted by Hawke's sister Bethany, who blushes and gives him a shy smile when he courteously kisses her hand. “Chantry Boy” turns out to be a rather handsome archer named Sebastian from Starkhaven; Anders would find his easy charm and friendliness rather too disarming if not for the very obvious (and truth be told, incredibly distracting) emblem of Andraste upon his crotch. Varric introduces him as “Prince Vael”, and Anders is instantly on his guard when the dwarf in turn introduces Anders as the son of some minor noble whose name Anders had plucked from some vague half-memory that a family of that name had lived near Lake Calenhad. Aveline, oblivious, makes some sympathetic comment about how terrible it is that many of the noble families around Kinloch were wiped out during the Blight, and Anders inwardly thanks Andraste whilst outwardly puts on a suitably sorrowful air as the others express quiet sympathies.

He hates himself for the deception when Fenris briefly rests a hand upon his shoulder and squeezes it lightly.

He has just reached for his second glass of wine when Varric glances up with a welcoming grin. “Ah, come to join us at last, Rivaini?” he exclaims, and Anders turns towards the door.

It is Isabela. And from the way her dancing golden eyes widen as she stares at him, he realises with a sinking heart that she recognises him.


	5. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders comes clean to Isabela, and Fenris learns something more about his erstwhile guest.

Isabela's eyes light up as she saunters into the room. “Well, well, who do we have here?” she drawls with a grin.

“Isabela, this is the man I was telling you about – Fenris' friend? He's been helping Varric with his latest book. Anders, this is Isabela,” adds Hawke as she turns to him, oblivious to the way Isabela is eyeing him almost as though he were some delectable morsel she's looking forward to devouring.

Much as a cat might look at a mouse, he reflects, even as he lets a faint, polite smile grace his lips. He feels sick and queasy.

“Blondie was kidnapped by slavers back in Ferelden; he was fortunate enough to stagger into Broody's tender care a couple months back,” explains Varric. “Can I get you a drink, Rivaini?”

“The usual please, Varric,” replies Isabela as she takes a seat directly opposite Anders. “Kidnapped by slavers, hey? Fascinating! Whereabouts in Ferelden? Denerim perchance? There's a lovely little place there called the Pearl….”

“Can't say I've ever visited it,” says Anders as he glances down into his glass of wine.

“Are you sure? You look very similar to a chap I met there once.” She grins as she leans forward, resting her chin on her hands as she eyes him. “He had the most fantastically-talented hands. 'Sparklefingers', we all called him.” Her grin broadens, and he almost jumps as he feels her booted foot slowly run up the inside of his leg.

Anders chokes on his drink, but given that Sebastian is doing the same his reaction passes unremarked by the others.

“Isabela, leave the poor man alone – I'm quite sure a fine upstanding young man like Anders wouldn't be seen in the kind of places I'm sure you're alluding to!” exclaims the archer.

“Why not? You did,” she remarks with a wicked grin. “I've heard all about your debauched past, Chantry Boy – rumour has it you spent plenty of time on your knees in such places in your time.”

“Isabela!” Sebastian has turned bright crimson, whilst Merrill looks confused.

“Did I miss something?” the elven mage asks. “Was it something dirty? I'm always missing dirty things. It _was_ dirty, wasn't it?”

“I'll explain it to you later, Kitten,” grins Isabela.

With attention turned to teasing Sebastian, Anders allows himself to relax a little. Varric returns with a pint of the tavern's brew, the cards come out, and Hawke and Fenris take it upon themselves to teach Anders how to play Wicked Grace.

Anders is appalling at it and loses every hand. Then again so does Merrill, so he's hardly alone there. He takes it in good grace.

After a few more hands and another round of drinks, he's beginning to relax again. Isabela seems to have been successfully distracted, Hawke's other friends all seem quite charming, and even “Chantry Boy” isn't too bad – for a man who wears the face of the Maker's Bride over his crotch. He loses another hand with a rueful smile and good-naturedly tosses down his hand, conceding the round as he rises to go in search of the privy.

Hawke's little merry band seem quite the odd, eclectic group. Merrill isn't at all what he would have expected of a blood mage; not that he's ever associated with any – well, there was Jowan, back in Kinloch, but Anders isn't really sure he counts and anyway, Anders had already been Harrowed long before Jowan fled, and the apprentices and mages never really mixed in Kinloch anyway so he hadn't really _known_ Jowan. And then Anders had been shipped off here to the Gallows in Kirkwall pretty much straight afterwards so he never did find out what had happened to him. But after the way Fenris had ranted about her, Anders hadn't expected Merrill to be quite so… well… _nice_. It's a bit disarming, really.

Hawke's sister… now, she's a real sweetie, he muses as he straightens his clothes afterwards. Despite his hatred of mages, Anders can't help but notice Fenris doesn't rant about her the way he does about the Dalish mage. Then again, it probably wouldn't be the most prudent thing to do around Hawke; Anders has the distinct impression Hawke is very protective of her little sister. He can see why Varric calls Bethany “Sunshine” though. It suits her.

He wonders what it must be like to be an apostate in Hawke's company. Despite his feelings about mages, it doesn't seem to deter Fenris from accompanying Hawke; he knows this much just from their talk of a planned trip to the coast. Hawke has been trying to persuade Fenris into accompanying herself, Varric, Isabela and Bethany – something about some relic Isabela's trying to track down.

He wishes he had some excuse to join them, but he’s supposed to be just some random minor noble’s son. He can’t wield a sword or fire a bow - he has no skills to offer save the magic he is too afraid to reveal. 

He wishes he could. But he fears Fenris’ wrath far more.

He sighs; it’s a moot point anyway, he’s still not recovered enough to even be able to make the journey to the Hanged Man without fenris’ help - he certainly couldn’t manage a trip out to the coast.

He leaves the privy and nearly jumps out of his skin when he finds Isabela leaning against the wall directly outside the door. She grins at his evident surprise.

“I _do_ know you from the Pearl,” she remarks quietly, reaching out to flick his gold hoop with a forefinger. “I never forget a face, sweet thing - and _you_ were a very sweet thing indeed. What’s with this whole charade?”

He swallows hard. “Fenris,” he answers, and she nods slowly, understanding at once.

“Fond of our favourite broody elf are you?” she teases. He rolls his eyes.

“If you must know, I managed to escape the Gallows after a year in solitary, and I made it as far as his mansion before I fell over,” he replies quietly. Her expression changes.

“A whole year? Maker, what for?” she exclaims.

“I was too much of a troublemaker,” he shrugs, his expression bitter. “Greagoir finally got tired of me I guess. Irving managed to talk him out of having me made Tranquil, but not out of shipping me out to Kirkwall. Meredith took one look at my record and had me thrown in solitary - for ‘correction’. I was half-dead by the time I passed out on Fenris’ bed, drugged to the eyeballs on magebane and delirious; and by the time I’d recovered enough to string two coherent thoughts together Fenris had saved my life, assuming from my injuries that I was some runaway slave. Seems there’s quite the problem with slavers around here. Still the City of Chains, one way or another.”

“You don’t know the half of it, sweet thing,” nods Isabela. “And so you’ve been hiding out for a couple of months with Fenris whilst the templars search all over for their missing blond apostate?”

“That’s about the shape of it, yes,” agrees Anders. “If I used magic in Hightown I’d have half the Chantry around my ears within the hour - if Fenris didn’t put his fist through my chest first.”

“Anders, he’s bound to find out sooner or later,” Isabela says quietly.

“Yes, well, the later the better,” answered Anders tiredly. His body is beginning to ache again now he’s no longer being distracted by conversation with new friends and the card game, and the longer they stand here talking the harder it’s growing to ignore the pain. He desperately wishes he dared use even just a little trickle of magic, but if templars happen to be passing at that moment - well, it wouldn’t just be Anders at risk. There’s Merrill and Bethany to consider.

“Are you alright?” asks Isabela quietly.

“No, I’m really not,” he admits. “They did quite a number on me in solitary and I’m tired.”

“Anders,” she says quietly, her voice serious. “I’ll not say a word. But I’ll warn you now - you’d best find a way to explain to Fenris who you really are sooner rather than later. The longer you leave it, the worse he’ll take it.”

He nods. “I know,” he answers, equally quietly. “I _want_ to. I don't like deceiving him. But I'm afraid of how he'll react when he finds out.”

“Oh, Fenris is more bark than bite, unless you're a slaver or magister,” shrugs Isabela. “It'll be fine, you'll see. Come on, the others will be wondering where we've got to.”

***

Fenris feels torn. On the one hand, Hawke really does need a warrior by her side if she's heading out to the coast without Aveline; on the other, it could mean leaving Anders on his own – and vulnerable if the blond man's hunters should show up to recapture him. Educated body slaves – even whipped and scarred ones like the tall slender man – are a rare and valuable commodity after all, and Fenris cannot imagine they would willingly give him up. If nothing else, letting him remain at liberty would send the wrong message to other slaves. Fenris knows this only too well.

A trip to the coast would allow the elven warrior to see for himself that the slavers' holding pens remain empty since they cleared the last group of slavers out. Maybe if Varric were not coming with them, he could have persuaded the dwarf to keep an eye on Anders – maybe move him into the Hanged Man for a while. But Hawke has already persuaded the dwarf to come on this little expedition. They are likely to be gone for several days at the least; Hawke needs to look for some herbs for one of her contacts.

Fenris sighs and glances at Anders. The blond man is oblivious; he is browsing one of the nearby stalls, in search of ink and quills. Fenris eyes the herbs on a nearby stall and picks up a bundle of a herb with small blue flowers.

“Fresh borage, Ser Elf – gathered only a day ago!” says the stall holder eagerly.

Anders glances over and snorts derisively. “Don't believe him – that's common alkanet; useless. Watch out for the hairs on the underside of the leaves – they're an irritant.” He pays for his ink and a package of new grey goose quills then comes to join Fenris.

“Ah, alkanet? Did I say borage?” says the stall holder nervously. “Ah, my mistake. Look, fresh elfroot! Best this side of Sundermount! Only half a sovereign!”

“Call that fresh?” Anders sneers scornfully. “That's a week old if it's a day! I wouldn't give you two coppers for it.”

“You know herbs?” says Fenris, impressed. “You… are a herbalist?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” shrugs Anders. “I'm familiar with their preparation and use. My mother kept a herb garden and I… well. I have some small talent as a healer. With herbs,” he added hastily.

Fenris eyes Anders with a shrewd look. “Come. We should talk to Hawke,” he suggests.

When they leave for the coast three days later, Anders goes with them.


	6. Spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders' secret is becoming very heavy.

He hasn't been out in the countryside in years – at least, not like this, walking as a free man, not feeling the need to look over his shoulder every mile or so for fear of templars. He hasn't much stamina, but the others find reasons for a short break every so often, just when it feels like he can't walk another step – Isabela picks up a stone in her boot somehow, Hawke needs to adjust the buckles on her leather armour, Varric suddenly gets inspiration and needs to dive down in the bottom of his rucksack for his quill and a small leather-bound journal, Bethany spots an interesting herb and asks Anders about it. At each halt, Anders takes the chance to sit down and catch his breath, grateful for the chance to rest. Fenris finds a reason to linger near Anders each time, and he seems to have an almost sixth sense for when Anders' pain is beginning to trouble him, a potion proffered silently. When they pause for food, he brews a cup of willowbark tea for Anders which helps the blond man's aching joints; when they move on, the elf takes point and sets a pace he knows Anders can handle.

Bethany lends him her staff as they walk; it's more practical than the walking stick out here on the rough road. He's nervous at first, and is keenly aware of Fenris' watchful eyes – but the elf merely remarks that maybe they should have gotten him a walking staff, and he shall look out for a suitable piece of wood as they walk.

Anders can't help but feel a little more reassured and confident with a staff in his hand. He's felt rather vulnerable without one, even though his was confiscated back in Kinloch and he's been without for over a year now. Something feels rather… _right_ about the staff. Bethany confides it was her father's.

“You look good with that staff, Blondie,” remarks Varric. “I could just see you as a mage actually – the dashing apostate healer maybe.”

“I think not,” interjects Fenris coolly. “I am glad he is untainted by magic's curse.”

Anders swallows hard. “Look, now you've hurt Bethany's feelings,” he deflects. It's true; Hawke's sister now has a pinched look about her eyes as she stares self-consciously at the ground.

“I… did not mean….” Fenris says slowly, the tips of his ears pinking in embarrassment.

“No, you never do,” says Hawke tartly as she darts him a sharp look.

“Look, Beth – there's a patch of crystal grace!” Anders says, deliberately changing the subject. “That's on your list, isn't it, Hawke?”

“Where? Oh, those little blue flowers?” says Bethany, casting him a grateful look. “How can you tell the difference between those and the ones we saw back there earlier?”

“The speedwell? It's the leaves – the ones on crystal grace are longer and thinner and grow in groups of three up the stem, but speedwell leaves grow in pairs and are more oval. Come on, I'll show you,” he says as they walk over to the patch of flowers.

“I still can't tell the difference between speedwell and forget-me-nots,” Bethany admits as she leans over the patch of crystal grace and begins gathering the flower spikes; very quietly she murmurs, “Thank you.”

“Fenris just doesn't think sometimes,” shrugs Anders, a little awkwardly.

“You're fond of him, aren't you?” she says quietly as she glances up at him.

“What?” he exclaims, startled. “No! Well – no, not like that; he's been kind to me and – well, he's been a friend, and we have a lot in common really. He just has had a lot of really bad encounters with magic.”

“Probably just as well you're not a mage then,” she remarks ruefully as she gets back to her feet and dusts off her leggings. “Pity, really. I could just picture you as one. I bet you'd be a healer; you just… look the type. You have healer's hands, just like my father did. I'm learning so much about herbs from you, I bet you'd be really good at teaching healing magic as well.” She smiles a little wistfully.

“About that -” Anders begins, but she's already walking away and doesn't hear him.

Oh well. Probably best if he continues to say nothing at all.

Isabela wants to check out the caves along the coastline, and both Hawke and Fenris agree it would be prudent to check that the slaver pens they’d emptied last time they came this way have remained empty. Checking out each cave takes some time – no slavers, but they disturb a nest of giant spiders in one. Anders throws Bethany's staff to her then keeps well back as the others deal with them. He cannot take his eyes off Fenris; the elf's white tattoos light up with blue-white light and then he seems to become incorporeal, and Anders can _feel_ the pull of the Fade as Fenris thrusts his hand through the body of a spider and then phases in his fingers enough to rip free what passes for the creature's brains – if spiders can truly be said to have such things. Suddenly Anders realises what the tattoos must be: lyrium, branded into the elf's skin. And worse still, with his healer's senses, he is suddenly aware of the pain that radiates from the elf, flaring within the elf's body along with the silvery-blue light of the brands. Using them costs Fenris an incredible amount of pain – pain that the elf forbears willingly, it seems.

_His master Danarius did that to him_ , he suddenly realises; he turns away and throws up. 

“Easy there, Blondie,” says Varric, the dwarf suddenly appearing at his side and patting his back as he hands him a canteen of water. “Your first time encountering giant spiders? Yeah, the smell takes a bit of getting used to.”

“Is he unwell?” asks Fenris as he appears next to them, spider ichor still clinging to his clawed gauntlets.

“Ah, Broody, you might want to go rinse off?” suggests Varric as he gestures towards the mess. “I don't think Blondie's too keen on spider guts.”

The elf glances down at his hands and a look of chagrin crosses his face. “Forgive me,” he rumbles quietly. “I did not mean to distress you further, Anders.”

Varric hands him the water canteen and Fenris moves away to sluice off his hands and forearms.

“Better now?” the dwarf asks, and Anders manages to nod.

“I think I need some fresh air,” he croaks.

“You and me both,” Bethany groans. She turns to call out to her sister, who is rummaging in a broken crate. “Marian, Anders and I are heading outside.”

Hawke straightens with something cloth in her hands. “Don't go too far! We'll be out in a moment.” Bethany nods and she and Anders head back out into the thin afternoon sunshine; behind them they can hear Hawke exclaiming over yet another pair of torn trousers.

Anders takes a deep breath with relief then moves over to a nearby log of driftwood, sitting down with a muffled groan. He bends down to massage his right knee.

“How are you holding up?” asks Bethany as she comes to sit next to him.

“Better than I expected,” remarks Anders with a shrug. “I shan't deny I'll be glad when we finally stop and make camp though.” He flexes his long fingers into his thigh to try and ease the cramp he can feel forming.

“Want me to try?” she asks shyly, holding up a hand; the faint blue glow of healing magic is barely perceptible in the weak sunshine. “I'm not very good, but maybe I can help a little?”

“Please,” he nods, and stretches out his leg.

She crouches down in front of him and lays her hands either side of the painful knee, and he can feel her draw upon her mana as the first tentative touches of healing magic wash lightly across his skin.

She's unskilled at this, he can tell; the magic almost formless and only crudely directed, but he thinks she could probably learn to be better. It's obvious she's been self-taught; he guesses her father must have died before he could teach her much.

He stares down at her as Bethany frowns at his leg in concentration, and he bites his lip. He's sure that of all of them, Bethany is the one he could trust. And he could help her. He _knows_ he could. She's right; he _is_ a good teacher – he always was, back in the Circle (well, when he wasn't being punished for running away yet again, he amends inwardly), and if there's one thing he excels at, it's healing. As a spirit healer he has a gift he knows is rare – it's what makes the slow progress of his healing so almost unbearably galling.

“Bethany,” he says quietly. “You've been an apostate all your life, haven't you?”

“Yes,” she nods, not looking up. “Father escaped the Circle about a year before Marian was born, and he and Mother eloped together. Carver and I were born five years after Marian. Father knew I was a mage pretty early on of course. We've never stayed in any one place for too long – Lothering was the longest. We were there for five years, before the Blight and the darkspawn came.”

“Did you… have many friends who knew? That you were an apostate?” he asks slowly, trying to keep his tone diffident.

“In Lothering? No,” she shrugs as she sits back. “I think that's about all I can do for your leg I'm afraid.”

He bends it experimentally then smiles. “Better than a potion.”

She grins, then tilts her head on one side. “Why do you ask? About me being an apostate, I mean? I guess you've not met many mages?”

“I was just wondering – if you ever had anyone to talk to, about magic. Who knew who, what you really were,” shrugs Anders. “I mean, apart from your family. It can't have been easy, having to hide that part of yourself away like that.”

“No, not really,” she admits. “I couldn't take the chance of the wrong people finding out; if the templars came for me, we'd have to move again and it would be all my fault. I miss Lothering sometimes – but at least in Kirkwall we actually have friends I can talk to, who know what I am and I can trust. It's good not to have to hide – at least, not quite so much,” she amends. She grins at Anders. “And you can trust them too, Anders. You're one of us now, you know. You can share anything with Marian and me, you know that, right?”

He wants to tell her. It's a burning need. He can't keep doing this – deceiving them all; they're good people. They've helped him, even though he's a stranger, and all he's done in return is lie to them and it feels _wrong_. He can't do this any more.

“Bethany, there's something I – I need to tell you,” he stammers quietly as he reaches to take her hands.

“What is it?” she exclaims, looking up at him curiously.

“Anders, are you propositioning my kid sister?” Hawke interrupts suddenly as she drops down onto the driftwood log and claps him on the shoulder. He winces.

“Maker – what? No!” he protests. “That's – I wasn't -”

“Pity,” interjects Varric with a sigh as he stomps around the log to join them. “I was just thinking the dashing young blond nobleman really needs a nice bit of romance; the readers just eat that shit up.”

“Your readers will have to be disappointed,” drawls Fenris as he glowers at the dwarf.

“Ooh, do I detect a hint of jealousy there, Broody?” asks Isabela with a grin.

“Excuse me!” Anders says a little loudly. “You're embarrassing Bethany – Maker, can't a man talk to a pretty girl without everyone jumping to conclusions?”

“Not when the pretty girl in question happens to be my kid sister; embarrassing her is pretty much the big sister's job,” grins Hawke.

The moment is gone. He can hardly tell her in front of everyone, and in any case they're now all teasing both him and Bethany, Isabela is half-jokingly making up friend-fiction with Varric – deliberately to wind up Fenris, Anders suspects – and the elf….

The elf appears to be in a particularly surly mood and snapping grumpily at the teasing, Anders notes with some surprise. If not for the fact Anders knows full well that Fenris has no interest in men then he might suspect there's an element of truth in Isabela's teasing that perhaps has struck too close to home. 

But he remembers the pain radiating from Fenris, and he can feel it still – the stiffness of a body still dealing with after-echoes of intense agony. He wonders how the elf can stand to use such abilities if they cause him so much pain; he supposes he must have been conditioned to it, no doubt by Danarius.

No wonder he hates mages so much.

“We should move on,” Fenris says tersely.

Anders watches him, and wonders how he can help his friend without revealing what he is. Perhaps he can't. Perhaps….

He swallows and gets to his feet, nodding silently as he follows Fenris, and says nothing.

He hates himself for being such a coward.


	7. Making Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris finds himself growing jealous. And more besides.

The slaver pens stand empty. Fenris feels a sense of grim satisfaction as they glance around the cave; the fight here had been hard and bloody when they'd ousted the slavers, and it is clear that no-one has tried to make use of the pens since. The dust is old, and the slavers' blood and that of their last victims still stains the ground.

He glances over at Anders; the tall blond man is standing beside one of the slaver pens, staring at it with a frown. As Fenris watches, Anders reaches out and fingers a manacle still chained to the wall, then hastily drops it, the chain rattling, and he wipes his hand off frantically on the leg of his pants as though he'd touched something distasteful.

Fenris curses himself for his insensitivity as Anders turns away from the pen looking sick. The man barely escaped with his life from his captors less than three months ago – of course looking upon such things would still be unnerving for him. The elf crosses the cave swiftly and takes Anders' arm as the other man stumbles slightly.

“Let me help you into the fresh air,” he suggests. “We are done here.”

Anders nods, his face pale and drawn.

“Everything OK?” calls Hawke.

“I think we should find somewhere to make camp,” answers Fenris as he guides Anders towards the cave entrance. He has the feeling that Anders is not fond of small spaces; with each cave they have delved into in search of Isabela's lost relic the blond man has looked more on edge, his skin pale and clammy, and he thinks perhaps it would be best not to test the limits of Anders' limited endurance.

He can feel Anders relaxing and straightening a little as the emerge outside once more. The sun is setting; it's a good time to find a place to spend the night. 

He exchanges a glance with Varric as he slowly nods towards Anders, and the dwarf slowly nods in reply. He's seen for himself that although the blond herbalist doesn't complain, his footsteps are slower, and he has been limping more.

“Hey, Sunshine – sit with Blondie whilst Broody and I get the tents up,” Varric suggests. “Rivaini, you want to scout around for a stream or something?”

“I think there was one back there between those rocks,” she nods. “You're going to set up by those trees?”

“It would give the fire shelter,” replies Fenris.

“I can help!” protests Anders.

“Sure you can, Blondie – you can give Hawke a hand building the fire and sort through our rations,” replies Varric.

They get the tents set up, Isabela brings back water, Hawke shows Anders how to make flatbread whilst Bethany sorts through the herbs she and Anders have gathered, the blond herbalist leaning over to correct her identification of one or two of the ones without flowers and describe their uses and preparation.

“How did you learn all this stuff, Blondie?” asks Varric, impressed.

“Oh, my mother kept a herb garden, and she taught me a lot. I learned more from books and – well, it was felt to be a suitable subject of study. I was hardly going to be going off to join the army or anything after all. I always preferred to have my nose in a book – I knew what I was good at,” Anders shrugs. “I leave the expert wielding of swords to those that are good at it.” He grins at Fenris, and the elf feels an unaccountable feeling of warmth inside. Anders' smiles are bright and infectious, and Fenris finds himself smiling in response. 

“How did the slavers come to pick you up?” asks Bethany, glancing up at him innocently. As Fenris glances at Anders, he sees the man’s face fall, and then he seems to fold in upon himself, his eyes darkening. He swallows hard.

“It is not a matter for discussion right now,” says Fenris tersely, and Anders casts him a grateful look. Fenris is wildly curious himself about his erstwhile companion, but he would not delve into the man’s painful memories like this. Such confidences are for somewhere quiet and private, safe - not aired to satisfy idle curiosity like a campfire story.

Bethany blushes and stammers an apology, but Anders graciously soothes her with a few words; he seems oblivious to the way Bethany’s cheeks dimple and her eyes shine as she stares at the blond herbalist even after he has turned away to flip the browning flatbreads upon the iron griddle. 

But Fenris sees - and so does Varric. The dwarf’s gaze meets Fenris’ own - and Fenris feels his face grow unaccountably warm, as though the dwarf has somehow seen that brief irrational flare of jealousy inside him.

Perhaps he has? A disquieting thought that; he has seen Bethany’s growing crush on the oblivious Anders - as, it seems, has Hawke, who is regarding her young sister with an eye that sparkles with the promise of future teasing - but perhaps he has also seen Fenris’ growing, deepening... fondness? Yes, perhaps fondness is the right word. His growing fondness for the blond man with the warm honey-brown eyes, infectious smile, the slender milk-pale body that is slowly filling out from the stark, angular lines of starvation, that he presses himself against during the night, burying his face in the soft dark gold hair as he gently runs his hand down the sleeping man’s side, over his hip -

With a start, Fenris realises the direction his thoughts are taking as he stares at Anders who is now innocently fishing the cooked flatbreads off the griddle with deft fingers, completely unaware of Fenris’ thoughts. Anders abruptly swears as he catches his hand upon the griddle and the pale tender flesh burns; Fenris is instantly at his side, reaching for the injured hand as Anders’ head jerks up, startled.

“You should have a care,” Fenris rumbles softly as he pours cool water from his canteen over the reddening flesh. Anders mumbles something that sounds like an apology as Fenris cradles the pale white hand in his own. 

Bethany hands him a healing kit and Fenris insists upon dressing the burn before finally allowing Anders to take back his hand. Anders’ cheeks are slightly pink and he appears slightly flushed; it is the heat of the cooking fire, perhaps.

“Thank you, Fenris,” Anders says quietly. “I was a bit clumsy, wasn’t I?” His gaze drops to his bandaged hand.

Fenris feels an inexplicable warmth in his chest as the blond man gives him a rueful smile. “Anders,” he begins, leaning forward.

“Yes, Fenris?” Anders asks, glancing up innocently.

“I -” Fenris gets no further as Isabela suddenly streaks past wearing nothing but her headscarf.

“Last one in the water’s a moldy old templar jockstrap!” she calls as she streaks down towards the beach and the sea.

“Isabela!” exclaims Bethany, torn between horrified and amused as her sister follows a moment later, shedding clothes as she runs after the Rivaini pirate. She jumps up nonetheless and runs after them, calling for them to wait for her.

Varric is laughing heartily, and Anders bursts out giggling. The moment is gone, and it is now Fenris’ turn to smile ruefully.

He mentally curses the necessity that means the dwarf will be sharing their tent this night, the girls in the other.

The women bathe, whilst the men take care of cooking. When they eventually return from the sea, skin pink, hair wet and eyes full of laughter, the food is ready. They sit and eat, chatting companionably until bellies are full and a satisfied silence falls.

After a while, Anders excuses himself and walks off towards the beach, leaning on Bethany’s staff. He has said no word of complaint, but Fenris can tell from the way he walks that the blond man is in pain.

“You should go after him,” Isabela says suddenly. He glances up at her, startled, and then frowns.

“He needs no nursemaid,” he replies tersely.

“I didn’t say he did, sweet thing,” she replies, her golden eyes reflecting the firelight as she leans forward, her expression serious for once. “But he’s tired and in pain, and perhaps someone should keep an eye on him.” Her eyes soften slightly. “Someone who cares about him.”

He opens his mouth then pauses as her eyes take on a knowing look. Her soft laughter follows him as he rises and makes his way towards the beach.

He scowls as he trudges through the soft sand down towards the sea. He tells himself he is merely concerned for the blond man’s well-being. After all, it is true that Anders is obviously tired and in pain. There may be wild animals or smugglers nearby, and the herbalist is unarmed, defenseless, vulnerable -

And standing naked in the water with his back to Fenris.

The elf ducks back hurriedly behind a rock. It isn’t that he has never seen Anders naked before - on the contrary; he is familiar with the blond man’s body - one might almost say intimately so, in a way. But Anders is unaware he is no longer alone, and Fenris finds himself unwilling to intrude on the man when he evidently wished to bathe alone.

Anders is beautiful in the moonlight; the pale light limnes his slender form in silver, each droplet of water that runs down over his back and shoulders illuminated gently by the soft white radiance. The dark sea water rises to his hips, his body rising white like marble above the inky dark waves that roll sluggishly towards the shore.

The blond man reaches up to untie his hair and the dark gold hair tumbles down his back. The moonlight throws the scars across Anders’ back into stark relief - crisscrossing across his back from shoulders right down the backs of his thighs. No wonder he wished to bathe alone; Fenris does not like being unclothed around the others, even though at one time or another their companions have declared the swirls of lyrium branded into his body to be beautiful - how much worse must it be for the blond herbalist? Yet Fenris finds a strange beauty in the marks across Anders’ skin; they are a mute testimony to his survival, his strength of endurance. Fenris nursed every one and knows them well.

The blond man dips down in the water until it covers his shoulders, the blond hair fanning out in the water, then briefly ducks under before standing once more with an exhalation of breath, sweeping the wet hair back from his face with both hands before bringing one hand slowly down the front of his body. Fenris feels a definite stirring in his groin as Anders’ hand dips down, and then begins to move and the blond man lets out a low groan.

Fenris catches his breath as his own hand slips, unbidden, into the front of his leggings and he frees his already-stiffening cock and takes himself in hand. He strokes himself slowly, unconsciously matching his strokes in time to those of Anders, speeding up gradually as heat builds coiling low down in his groin. He bites his lip to keep silent, but Anders is uninhibited, moaning as his movements become faster, more frantic, his breath coming in pants as his hips jerk until finally he comes with a hoarse, low cry, shuddering as he spills his seed into the dark water.

The sight of Anders in such unconscious abandon reaching climax is enough to bring Fenris shuddering over the edge; as he does so, he gasps Anders’ name unthinkingly. A sharp gasp brings him back to himself and he ducks back behind a rock as Anders’ head whips round, his eyes wide in alarm as he sweeps his gaze along the empty shoreline.

“Who’s there?” he calls, his alarm showing in the slight quaver in his voice; Fenris curses himself as he tugs his leggings back up. He doesn’t dare look back around the rock but instead slips away as silently as he can before sprinting back to the campsite. 

He carefully skirts around it and heads to the stream to refill his water canteen then casually strides back into camp just as Anders arrives from the other direction, his face flushed, clothes hastily thrown on. The blond man is slightly out of breath, as he limps in, leaning on Bethany’s staff.

“Blondie? Is there something wrong?” says Varric as he glances up at the herbalist in surprise.

“I thought -” Anders halts, a faint look of confusion replacing the look of alarm.

“Anders?” asks Fenris.

Anders glances at him, and for a long moment the elf fears that Anders must have heard his involuntary voicing of his name. But finally Anders shakes his head.

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter,” he says quietly. “I’m tired; I’m going to turn in.”

Fenris merely nods.

“Sleep well, Blondie,” says Varric. “I’ll take first watch.”

Fenris watches Anders duck into the tent; there is the rustle of cloth, a soft sigh, and then silence. After a moment, Fenris takes a seat upon the fallen log near Varric and stares into the fire.

The dwarf chuckles. “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice low so as not to disturb the others. “When are you going to tell him?”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” says Fenris stiffly.

“Sure you don’t - you just make puppy eyes at him every time his back’s turned,” observes Varric. Fenris stiffens.

“There are no puppy eyes,” he says tersely.

“Fine, Broody, have it your way,” shrugs Varric.


	8. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Fenris both think a lot before sleeping.

Anders is drifting, drowsy, not fully asleep but not entirely awake either when Fenris finally comes to bed. He lies still, keeping his breathing slow and even as Fenris fusses with his bedroll, removing his cuirass and tunic before finally stretching out behind Anders and tugging his blanket up. Anders lies still, expecting to feel the comforting, familiar feeling of the elf pressing himself up against Anders’ back, until he realises Fenris is lying on his back, still awake. The elf gives a very quiet sigh, but otherwise is silent.

Anders opens his eyes in the dimness of the tent. It’s not truly dark, for which he is grateful; the flickering light of the fire outside casts a warm orange glow through the tent canvas. He wonders what has the elf so sleepless.

His thoughts wander back to earlier upon the beach. He’d waited until after the meal was over to head down to the water to bathe. The day had been sticky and warm, the path dusty, but he had been loath to undress in front of the others. Fenris has seen his scars and would say nothing, and Isabela has seen the older ones - but he is almost afraid to let Hawke or Varric see; and he cannot bear the thought of Bethany regarding him with pity. So he had gone down to the water’s edge alone to bathe.

And if he chose to relieve a certain urge alone there, well, what of it? And perhaps a certain rather pleasant fantasy involving a particular elf might have gone through his mind. All in all, he’d enjoyed the silence, the peace, the quiet -

Until he heard his own name softly gasped.

Now he lies sleepless, staring into the shadows whilst Fenris lies behind him, and he cannot stop thinking about how he recognised the elf’s voice at once - Maker, he’s been _living_ with the man for nearly three months now, he’d recognise that voice anywhere! And yet the way Fenris had looked at him when he returned -

Maybe he’s mistaken? But he can’t be. He cannot fathom why the dwarf would have been spying on him after all, and the voice was too low for any of the women. That leaves only Fenris.

Why would the elf be spying on him? Maker, it’s just as well he hadn’t given in to the temptation to chase away the day’s aches and pains with a little healing, away from prying eyes and far from the risk of templars....

That doesn’t answer the question of why Fenris would follow him and say nothing. Unless...

Unless Fenris had followed and stayed to watch him. Watch him do... _that_.

Anders is glad that he’s never been given to groaning out names; Andraste’s flaming knickers, that would have been too embarrassing! As embarrassing as if the elf had -

Had called _his_ name out.

Anders’ eyes, which had been drifting slowly closed again as they absently watched the comforting flicker of firelight upon the canvas wall of the tent, suddenly open wide again. Whilst he was in the water, could Fenris have been similarly pleasuring himself? And thinking of _him_ as he did so?

But then what of Hawke? Anders has seen how Fenris is when in the woman’s company - the way he seems to come out of his shell around her, the smile coming more readily to his lips, the frown creasing his less. Even Varric’s noticed it; Anders had heard the rumble of conversation between them earlier and then Fenris’ declaration - a little louder than necessary - that there were no puppy eyes. Anders had had to put his hand over his mouth to stifle a snort at that.

Yes, there are most certainly puppy eyes, and Anders has seen them. They aren’t for him however. He has not forgotten the morning he awoke to feel Fenris nuzzling into his hair, his hands wandering slowly along Anders’ flank, warm fingers drifting across his hip - only for cold water to be poured upon any vague ideas he might have had concerning himself and the elf when Fenris had drowsily murmured Hawke’s name, hopes dashed before they’d even formed as the elf had fled.

So Fenris’ behaviour now has him confused. Maybe he was wrong about the elf’s orientation, but that still does not explain how the elf comes to be pleasuring himself over the sight of Anders naked - to the point of calling out his name, no less! - when he is so obviously smitten with the human rogue to the point that Varric is twitting him over puppy eyes.

Maybe he’s overthinking this. Maybe he’s getting too full of himself, making assumptions about what Fenris was up to behind that rock. Maybe he was only imagining the elf calling out his name softly, the way he does sometimes in Anders’ dreams. Maybe it was merely the wind and his own fanciful imagination he’d heard.

He wouldn’t say no, is the thing. If Fenris were to ask - which, on the evidence, is clearly not going to happen and Anders would be a fool indeed to wish for it given the elf’s very obvious feelings on mages and, well, just as well really, all things considered, and he should shut up and go to sleep and stop fancifully musing about something he’d quite clearly imagined, because if Fenris had any actual feelings for him then he’d be snuggling up to Anders and all this worrying would be moot so perhaps he ought to just go to sleep and forget about it.

He sighs softly, sadly to himself then closes his eyes, soon drifting into sleep.

***

Fenris hears the sad little sigh, and sits up, his brow creasing in worry. But Anders’ eyes are closed and his face, though wistful, seems at peace. Whatever occasioned the sigh, thankfully it does not appear to have been a nightmare - or at least, not yet.

Fenris longs to roll over and press himself against Anders’ sleeping form as he would have done were they back at his decrepit old mansion, but he is all too aware of Varric’s presence outside the tent and he would not give the dwarf more to write about.

Still. that little wistful sigh tugs at him guiltily. It was almost a _lonely_ sound, in a way. He has to restrain the urge to reach out to Anders.

He lies there, staring into the dark; presently he can hear Anders begin to snore, very softly. It is a comforting sound, in a way - he wonders when it first became so. He realises he has grown used to it these past couple of months, and isn’t that strange? That he, alone for so long, now finds it so natural to lie alongside another and take comfort from the sound of them sleeping? But it is reassurance that Anders still breathes.

When did his concern for a fellow escaped slave’s healing and well-being deepen into deriving comfort from his presence - even (when he grudgingly admits to it, if only to himself) jealousy when his attention is bestowed upon others or they exhibit interest? He does not _own_ Anders, after all (and if he has his way, no-one ever shall again) - he has merely nursed him back to health.

He rolls upon his side, away from Anders; it is too tempting to turn and bury his face in the dark gold hair, and so he turns away from temptation. He does not wish Varric to see him like that. He does not wish to be humiliated by providing fodder for some racy scene in one of Varric’s books; more importantly, he does not wish _Anders_ to be humiliated by it. He is aware of the scenes Varric has already written that Anders for some reason withheld from him; he can think of no reason why he would do that unless he were embarrassed by them. Evidently Anders is disquietened by the insinuation of something intimate between them.

Fenris resolves not to speak of this to the herbalist unless and until Anders himself makes a move. Despite his own growing feelings, Fenris is loath to press attentions on another unless he is certain they will be reciprocated - and Anders has shown no interest in him beyond simple friendship thus far.

Musing thus, he drifts asleep, into dreams of running his hands over a milk-white body, into dark gold hair, of honey-brown eyes and a voice that breathes his name huskily. 

He drifts awake a while later to Varric’s snores; it is not that which has wakened him however, but the sensation of a long aquiline nose nuzzling into his own hair at the nape of his neck and a long arm draping around his waist. Anders has rolled over and spooned himself around the elf.

“Anders?” he ventures, his voice low so as to not disturb Varric. The only answer is a sleepy, incoherent murmur, followed by a soft snore.

Ah. It appears that in sleep, at least, Anders derives comfort from his presence. Fenris sighs, and pats Anders’ limp hand gently before drifting back to sleep.

It seems only minutes later that he starts awake at the sound of Isabela calling him quietly. It is his turn on watch. He disentangles himself gently from Anders, who drowsily protests without opening his eyes before curling up in the warm place Fenris has just vacated. Carefully he tucks both his blanket and Anders’ own more fully around the sleeping man before turning to reach for his cuirass and sword.

He glances up to find Isabela watching him with a grin upon her face.

“Not a word,” he growls as he emerges from the tent.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweet thing,” she grins back. “He’s a very cuddly sleeper.”

He pauses in the act of buckling on his cuirass. “What do you mean by that?” he demands.

She merely smiles and wiggles her fingers at him in a little wave ‘goodnight’ before ducking back into the tent she shares with the two sisters.

Fenris scowls as he finishes fastening the buckles of his armour and pulls on his steel-tipped gauntlets, then takes his seat upon the fallen log beside the glowing embers of the fire to watch out the remainder of the night until the dawn. His thoughts return often to the blond man who has invaded his life and even his very dreams.

He stirs up the fire just before dawn, adding fresh wood, so that he can boil the kettle for tea for Anders. He does it without much thought; it is not until he is staring at the brewing tea that he realises that he has done so because he is looking forward to the sleepy smile he will get from Anders when he wakes him with the cup.

A smile for him alone.

And that is when Fenris finally realises it: _I love him._


	9. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets have a habit of finding their way out....

Anders drifts out of the warm haze of a dream he can’t quite remember, to a touch upon his shoulder and the scent of tea. He opens his eyes to find Fenris sitting cross-legged beside him on his bedroll and holding a mug of steaming tea.

“Oh, is that for me?” he smiles as he sits up, rubbing his eyes. At some point in the night he’s ended up with both Fenris’ blanket and his own, tangled around himself and pinning his legs together. The elf chuckles quietly as he wrestles with the blankets to free himself before taking the mug with a rueful grin. He brushes his dishevelled hair back out of his face, only for an errant lock to tumble back in his eyes as he goes to take a sip of tea.

Before he can react, Fenris leans forward and tucks the lock of hair back behind Anders’ ear, his fingers warm as they brush Anders’ cheek. Anders stares at him, eyes widening a little at the intimate touch; and Fenris colours slightly as he ducks his head and mumbles something about breakfast before ducking out of the tent to leave Anders alone with his thoughts.

Anders lifts his hand to touch his cheek wonderingly.

Breakfast is a simple affair of cold rations washed down with hot tea before they pack their gear away and shoulder their packs once more. Fenris disappears down onto the beach, returning perhaps a half an hour later with a stout length of seasoned driftwood, bleached white by the sun and sea-salt, that forms a perfect natural staff for Anders. It is a suitable height for him, and feels comfortable in his hand. Fenris has smoothed off one end to be the foot of the staff; the other end branches into four slender branches that curve up about each other, intertwining, for perhaps some six or eight inches. Anders hefts the staff in his hand; it looks no different from any other walking staff, but it feels somehow _right_ in his hand and he wonders what tree it grew upon originally. Something within it resonates with him on an inner level. No matter; it is a staff, and it feels good to have one in his hand again that is undoubtedly _his_.

Bethany insists on tying a bundle of crystal grace to it and the others laugh - all except Fenris. Anders grins at the joke, but wonders at Fenris’ brief scowl before the elf turns away and declares they should move on. Anders feels his heart sink. The elf evidently cannot tolerate even a joking reference to mages, even when it is Hawke’s own sister doing it.

Isabela has several more caves she wants to check out, but Hawke suggests Bethany and Anders stay in the sunshine and finish gathering herbs whilst she, Fenris, Varric and Isabela take care of spiders and look for... well, whatever it is that the Rivaini pirate is looking for. Isabela has been very cagey about the whole thing, referring offhand to a relic of some sort and declaring that she’ll know it when she sees it.

She doesn’t see it however - not in the first cave she checks, or the second - or indeed the sixth or the seventh, by which point Anders and Bethany have found all the herbs on the list Solivitus gave Hawke, plus a few more besides and a couple of interesting reagents that Bethany remembers one of her sister’s contacts asking about. 

It’s enough to cheer Hawke up after all Isabela’s searching turns up yet more broken crates with rusty old weapons and torn clothing.

“I ask you - just how many pairs of torn pants do smugglers need anyhow?” Hawke is exclaiming as they emerge from yet another cave empty-handed.

“They probably weren’t torn originally, Hawke,” says Varric with a shrug.

“No luck then?” Anders asks sympathetically. He and Bethany have gotten a fire going and brewed tea for everyone, which earns them smiles and thanks. Anders brings a cup to Fenris and is rewarded with a grateful smile before the elf ducks his head and turns away, the tips of his ears turning almost crimson. Anders is somewhat bemused by the elf’s sudden flusteredness. He’s not entirely sure what to make of it.

Hawke declares it’s time to head back to Kirkwall; they’ve got the herbs, and Isabela needs to check in with her sources and ponder more likely places to look for her relic - as Hawke points out, they cannot possibly poke in every single cave along the coast.

They still keep alert on the way back - after all, it would not do to be caught unawares by some roving band of bandits or smugglers, simply because they’d let their guard down. As it is, they quite effectively ruin the late afternoon for a trio of bandits who make the mistake of assuming Anders and Bethany are alone when they wander off to the side of the road to look at a patch of bright pink flowers Bethany doesn’t recognise. Anders steps back as Bethany throws up a shield; he takes a slight risk and chances a subtle augmentation of her shield as he ducks behind her, even as he shouts for Fenris and Hawke.

Fenris doesn’t even glance at him as Bethany throws up shields over the others; he is unaware that the shields over all of them are stronger than usual, so focused is he on the fight. 

Anders hangs back, extending his senses over all of them. He is aware of a blade that manages to slice through past Fenris’ defence and the shield perhaps a split-second before Fenris is, and when Bethany turns to throw her own clumsy healing towards Fenris he reaches out mentally to augment and guide her magic to heal the wound.

He is aware of Bethany staring at her own hand in amazement before looking around in surprise, but she is distracted by her sister’s triumphant whoop as the third bandit goes down in a crumpled bloody heap. Fenris has belatedly noticed his freshly-healed wound and frowns, not having noticed the touch of magic that healed it; he glances at Bethany, and Anders hastens towards him.

“Maker, are you alright?” he exclaims. “It’s a good job you’re so fast - I thought that sword wound was going to be much worse, but I guess it was just messy and shallow. Let me clean that up and dress it for you.”

“I... had thought so too, but in the heat of battle....” Fenris shrugs, and allows Anders to clean and dress the shallow scrape that remains, though he glances back at Bethany thoughtfully. “Hawke’s sister is... better than I thought; I barely felt her healing magic.”

“She’s been practicing on me - I was pretty achey by the time we stopped outside that last cave last night,” Anders shrugs, hoping Fenris will accept the explanation. He’s aware of Bethany’s eyes upon him.

As they head off again, Fenris takes point and Anders finds himself walking alongside Bethany once more.

“I’m not that good,” she murmurs very quietly. “But I can tell when someone else is augmenting my spells.”

He stumbles, and she catches his arm. “Easy,” she says gently. He glances down at her, and she reads the sudden fear in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asks softly. “No, wait.” She glances away from the path. “Oh, look - Anders, is that felandaris?” she exclaims loudly, and drags him away from the path to a patch of purple bell like flowers.

“No, that’s -” he begins dazedly.

“Hush, it doesn’t matter what it is,” she replies gently, her voice low so the others won’t hear. “You’re a mage. Why -”

“Fenris,” he says desperately, and at once he can see she understands.

“Oh, Anders,” she says softly, and he closes his eyes against the sympathy he can see there.

“He can’t know. He’d kill me,” Anders breathes. “Please - you can’t tell him. Promise you’ll say nothing!”

“Wait - yesterday, when you said you had something to tell me,” Bethany suddenly realises. “It was this, wasn’t it? That you’re a mage? An apostate, just like me?”

Anders leans on his staff and bows his head with a small sigh. “Yes,” he confesses. “I wanted to to tell you. Even before then. You... were right, in a way. About the healing, I mean. I _am_ a healer.” He smiles slightly. “A spirit healer, actually.” His smile turns sad. “Not quite an apostate though - or, well, I suppose I _am_ now, aren’t I?”

“What do you mean?” asks Bethany, tilting her head to one side.

“It wasn’t slavers I was running away from,” answers Anders bleakly. “It was templars. I escaped from the Circle.”

Bethany gasps and reaches out a hand to rest it lightly upon his arm. “You mean... your injuries... you mean _templars_ did that to you??” There’s a look of horror in her eyes.

“Everything alright over here?” drawls a voice; Bethany jerks, startled, but Anders shakes his head with a reassuring smile as he straightens.

“It’s alright; Isabela already knows,” he explains as the Rivaini pirate glances between them.

“She’s worked it out then?” Isabela asks.

“Yes - and don’t worry, I won’t say a word,” says Bethany quietly.

Anders closes his eyes. “Thank you,” he breathes fervently.

“Sweet thing, you’re going to have to tell him sooner or later,” Isabela points out.

“I know,” Anders moans. “But I don’t know how. Not without getting myself killed. You _know_ how he feels about mages.”

“But I also know how he feels about _you_ ,” says Isabela. “You _must_ have seen the way he looks at you.”

“What?” says Anders, staring at her in puzzlement. “We’re just friends. He nursed me and looked after me as I was healing up, and we’ve grown used to each other - but that’s all there is. He’s not interested in men.”

“Are you so sure of that?” says Isabela, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Look, we’d best get back before the others come over to see what’s going on,” Anders says hastily. “Just - both of you, please say nothing.”

“I promise,” agrees Bethany earnestly.

“Is everything alright over here?” asks Hawke as she wanders over. “Bethany?”

“Fine,” replies her sister with a grin. “I just can’t recognise felandaris for toffee, and then Anders had a little dizzy spell but he’s fine now, aren’t you?” She smiles up at Anders as Fenris hurries over.

“Yes - fine, fine now,” Anders answers, grateful for her dissembling on his behalf.

“Perhaps you should sit down for a moment?” suggests Fenris with concern.

“No, I’ll be alright - I just straightened too quickly, is all,” shrugs Anders. “The sooner we get moving, the sooner we’ll be back in Kirkwall.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hawke grins. “Let’s get moving, and with any luck we’ll be in the Hanged Man by sundown.”

***

It’s a convivial gathering in the Hanged Man. Anders’ heart actually feels a little lighter for having come clean - to Bethany, at least. He’s hated lying to her, to them all; and even though they can’t speak openly of it here, he takes comfort from the way she chooses to sit next to him at the table, the friendly glances she gives him from time to time - the gentle press of her leg against his under the table when Merrill joins them and Fenris begins to glower and mutter about mages under his breath.

Hawke has drunk just enough beer at this point to start pointing out every single time either Merrill or Bethany have - either directly or indirectly - saved his skin, come to his aid and - in general - _not_ behave in the way he accuses all mages of doing. “Even today!” she goes on, gesturing towards her sister with her tankard, oblivious of the way her beer slops onto the table. “Bethany shielded us all - yes, even you, Fenris - and I bet you never even noticed when she healed you, did you? Did you say thank you to her for that by the way? Huh?”

Fenris apologises stiffly, but the mood at the table is already beginning to sour. Anders stares down into his glass of wine, feeling uncomfortable.

Bethany touches his hand lightly and he glances down at her; she gives him a reassuring smile and he returns it absently. He’s wondering how long it’s going to be before Fenris decides he’s had enough and they’re going home.

Huh. Home. Now there’s a thing. When did he start thinking of Fenris’ decrepit old mansion as ‘home’? He’s never really lived anywhere that was truly ‘home’ since the templars dragged him away when he was twelve. His life since then has been the Circle - which is to say, one prison after another. Some of them had whips and chains; some had studies and books. But they were all prisons one way or another. What he has with Fenris is the closest he’s ever come to a true home.

And what _is_ it he has with Fenris? Right now, he’s really not sure. The trip to the Wounded Coast has only served to confuse him. He’s been getting so many mixed signals from Fenris he honestly has no idea where he stands with the man. Elf. Whatever. Maker, how much wine has he drunk tonight? He glances into his empty glass with a faint frown.

“Are you alright?” asks Bethany very quietly.

“Hmm? Fine,” he replies. “Just tired. I think perhaps I’ve had enough wine; another glass and I’ll be falling asleep in my chair,” he admits ruefully.

“Fenris is glaring at us,” she murmurs as she ducks her head.

“Hmm?” He looks up; sure enough, Fenris is indeed staring at them with a scowl upon his face. Anders stares back, surprised. “Fenris?”

The elf suddenly lurches to his feet. “We are going home,” he announces suddenly. He glares at Anders. “Are you coming?”

“What? Oh - yes, yes, of course!” he says hurriedly, getting quickly to his feet and reaching for his walking staff. The thought of walking back to Hightown alone - with all the templar patrols around - fills him with dread. If Fenris says they’re going home now, then he is not going to argue.

“Not staying for cards, Broody?” says Varric.

“Not tonight,” Fenris shakes his head. He turns his head, not quite staring at Anders, his head lowered slightly. “Coming?” he repeats, his voice lower.

“Yes,” nods Anders. He casts an apologetic look around the table at the others; he doesn’t miss the worried looks that pass between Bethany and Isabela and - Maker, Varric too? Has _he_ guessed?

His heart sinking, he follows Fenris hastily, their friends’ farewells following him down the stairs.

Fenris is silent as they head back towards Hightown. Anders is tired and limping, but unusually Fenris does not slow his pace but instead strides on, forcing Anders to push himself to keep up. He grits his teeth as his right knee twinges painfully and shifts his grip on the staff, glad of its support.

Even so, he falls behind slightly, until finally he is forced to call out to the elf.

“Fenris, please - I can’t keep pace with you.” His tone is weary as he drives himself on after the elf.

The white-haired warrior halts but doesn’t glance back at him as Anders struggles on.

“Keep up,” Fenris says tersely as Anders draws level before turning away.

“I can’t,” says Anders quietly. For a moment he thinks the elf hasn’t heard, but finally Fenris turns back towards him.

 _He’s angry,_ Anders suddenly realises. _At... me?_ He swallows hard, and cold fear sheets down his spine like ice. There’s nothing quite like naked raw fear for sobering one up in a hurry. _He knows! Maker, he knows!_

He limps on towards the elf, even though his instincts tell him to flee in the opposite direction.

_He can’t know. He’d have killed me by now if he knew. He can’t know._

They carry on in silence, Fenris walking at a slower pace now that Anders can keep up, and he is thankful for it. They reach the mansion, and Fenris pushes the door open, not looking to see if Anders follows.

He enters slowly; Fenris is already halfway up the stairs towards their room.

Anders pulls the door closed behind him then crosses to the stairs and begins to climb them slowly, one hand braced upon the bannister rail, the other still gripping his walking staff. When he reaches the bedroom, Fenris is pacing restlessly. He doesn’t look at Anders as he paces, merely points at the chair where Anders customarily sits and says nothing.

Anders sets his walking staff against the wall then meekly obeys the unspoken command and sits, staring nervously up at Fenris.

“Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry -” he begins, hating the way his voice trembles, but Fenris cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

“You have done nothing,” he snaps. “I am angry at myself. And at Hawke’s sister.”

Anders gapes; it is some moments before he can finally find his voice. “At - at Bethany?”

Fenris whirles and gestures angrily. “She _flirts_ with you! Have you not noticed? She is constantly touching you, her eyes always upon you! Every time I turn, I find you two together!”

Anders stares at him, and all he can feel is giddy relief as an almost hysterical laugh begins to bubble up inside. _He doesn’t know. Thank the Maker, he **doesn’t know**._

Fenris frowns as Anders feels the corners of his lips curve into a smirk, and then he can’t help it - he begins to giggle. It’s purely from relief, but as Fenris stares at him in - Maker, is that _outrage?_ the elf resembles nothing so much as a cat whose dignity has been wounded, Anders would swear - yes, it’s outrage, and Anders is laughing hard now in earnest.

“Fenris, are you -” He has to pause and catch his breath. “Are you actually... _jealous?_ ”

Fenris suddenly scowls, and Anders knows the accusation has hit home. “You _are!_ ”

“Anders.” The flat tone cuts through Anders’ mirth, and his eyes widen.

“Wait, you -”

Fenris turns away with a disgusted noise that sounds like “Pfeh!” and throws his hands up, and suddenly Anders feels guilty. He gets to his feet and takes a step towards the elf.

“Andraste’s tits - I’m sorry, Fenris, I shouldn’t have laughed,” he says hastily. “But - jealous? Fenris, _why?_ I’m your friend, I’m not going to suddenly walk away and stop being your friend just because a pretty girl flirts with me, I-”

“You think her pretty then?”

“What?” Anders is brought up short. “Bethany? Well, yes; she _is_ pretty - so’s Hawke -”

“Hawke?” Fenris’ glare is unmistakable this time. “You have feelings for Hawke?”

“What??” Anders seems to be saying that a lot at the moment. he really must come up with something more eloquent to express his surprise and disbelief, he absently notes. “No! No more than any of her friends do. I’m just saying, she’s _pretty_. Just like Bethany is pretty, Isabela is pretty - Maker, _you’re_ pretty -”

Fenris’ eyes suddenly widen, the pupils dilating, and Anders thinks _oh shit_ as his own heart leaps, but that’s the moment when thirty slavers pile into the foyer downstairs shouting something about taking Fenris back to his master and everything goes to hell in a handbasket and oh _Maker_ , why them, why _now??_

But the moment is gone and so is Fenris, snatching his huge two-hander up and running from the room to vault the railing, his brands lighting up in a brilliant flash before he lands among them and the blood begins to fly. Fenris is swift and skilled, but they are many and he only one, and already Anders can feel Fenris' pains as his enemies inflict wounds. The fight, though many will fall, will be a foregone conclusion and they will eventually overwhelm Fenris if Anders doesn't do something. Now.

Anders closes his eyes briefly for one moment of regret for all that nearly was.

Then he snatches up his staff.


	10. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris learns the truth.

He runs out onto the landing and stares out over the foyer. Fenris is fighting furiously, a ghost of glowing lyrium - one that bleeds. He has taken down perhaps a dozen men already, but he is heavily wounded and tiring. 

One of the slavers notices him and shouts to the others; Fenris twirls his sword in a circle, forcing them back.

“Anders, _run!!_ ” he shouts.

“Not leaving you!” Anders shouts back.

“ _Venhedis_ , this is not the time -” Fenris gets no further, forced to defend himself as his opponents press the attack once more.

“Sadly, it is,” Anders murmurs to himself as a group of slavers peel off from the main group to start running up the stairs towards him. He throws up a shield over Fenris before turning to face them.

The staff isn’t enchanted, but it is, at least, something he can use as a focus. He levels it at the foremost slavers and unleashes a chain lightning spell that dances among the clustered men who are suddenly all rather regretting their armour choices. Chainmail probably looked like a good option when they donned it that morning, he muses. He follows it up with a fireball then he’s leaping down the stairs past the charred remains of what were once men.

Ice fans from his hand, freezing several men to the floor whilst he turns to deal with others coming towards him. He unleashes a spirit blast, hurling them back, before turning to block an attempted sword strike from a slaver who had tried to flank him with the haft of his staff, breathing a fervent if breathless prayer of thanks to Andraste when the staff holds and doesn’t shatter under the blow. He smacks the slaver upside the head with the foot of the staff before unleashing another spirit blast.

He’s tiring. Maker, he’s tiring, and there are too many of them, and he’s not used to fighting like this, and they’re both going to die and damn it, this is so unfair. He can’t even see Fenris for the slavers around him, though he can hear him swearing furiously. _Not dead yet then._ He unleashes another fireball, then reaches out to send a wave of healing in the direction of the elf-shaped ball of pain he can sense even as he freezes the feet of the nearest slavers to the floor.

He’s aware of the door bursting open and shouts as Hawke, Bethany, Varric, Isabela and Merrill erupt into the room like a force of nature and start laying into the group, but he has eyes only for Fenris who has just cut down the last of the slavers nearest him and is staring around with murderous eyes until his gaze falls on Anders.

“Mage,” he snarls.

Anders’ blood turns to ice.

He backs away, but Fenris is faster; he’s dimly aware of shouts and screams, but Fenris’ clawed hand is suddenly about his throat and then his back is slammed into a wall and his head bounces off plaster. He’s seeing stars, and he can’t breathe.

The hand about his throat loosens, and he blinks hard, dizzy, finding himself staring into furious emerald-green eyes.

“You deceived me!” snarls the elf.

“Sorry - I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” he babbles. “Please - believe me, I never meant to, I never -”

Pain. The most indescribable pain he has ever felt. His eyes widen with the agony and he would scream, but he has no breath. He drops his gaze to Fenris’ hand, glowing, buried within his chest; and he knows the elf’s fingers are curled around his heart as it falters, heartbeat stuttering.

It hurts, Maker it _hurts_ , beyond any pain he’s ever felt before. But worse is the look of hatred in Fenris’ eyes as he glares at Anders, and it is not pain that brings tears to his eyes.

“Fenris! What in the Void is wrong with you?”

Hawke. It’s Hawke shouting; shouting at Fenris. Varric too. Bethany’s voice in the background.

“Is this the way you treat the ones you love, Fenris? Better not write this one into the stories, Varric.”

Isabela’s voice - and that finally gets through to the elf where nothing else has. He whirls away to confront the Rivaini woman with a howl of fury, and suddenly the pain eases as Anders collapses to the ground, clutching at his chest and gasping for breath.

“Easy there, Blondie; are you -”

He pushes Varric’s hand away as he scrabbles for his staff and then lurches to his feet. 

He turns and runs.

He hears them calling to him, but he doesn’t look back. All he knows is that Fenris finally knows what he is, and he can’t stay there any longer. He has to run. He doesn’t know where to go; he has nowhere _to_ go - except the Gallows, and he’s not going back there.

His feet find the way back to Lowtown, adrenaline giving him energy that he lacked before. He finds himself standing outside the Hanged Man - but surely that’s the first place they’ll look for him.

Down. Something inside - some instinct, perhaps - tells him to keep going down. Every time he comes to a staircase, he goes down, until the ramshackle houses of Lowtown give way to the fetid sewers and shanties of Darktown.

His feet stumble through muck, and he’s beginning to shake badly as the adrenaline wears off. He aches all over and he’s exhausted, at the limits of his endurance.

He finds a boarded up hole and manages to wrest a couple of boards away, enough to crawl in, before tugging the boards back behind him. He crawls along the narrow passage, dragging his staff with him, until he can crawl no further. He finds a pile of dusty rags - perhaps the remains of sacks or something; he neither knows nor cares as he makes them into a nest and then collapses, falling swiftly into an exhausted sleep.

***

“He deceived me! He deceived all of us!” Fenris glares at Hawke, who glares right back, undaunted by his fury.

“Is it any wonder, if this is the way you react?” she exclaims. “You make no secret of how much you hate mages! You rant about it every chance you get! How often did he have to hear it when he was still sick and wounded? Maker, no _wonder_ his wounds weren’t healing - you realise he was probably poisoned with magebane when you found him? I don’t blame him for keeping it to himself when he was finally coherent enough to actually talk to us!”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he’d barely gotten out of the Gallows with his life,” Varric shakes his head sadly.

“He had,” says Bethany quietly.

“You! You _knew_ what he was, and you kept it to yourself!” Fenris snarls; Hawke steps in front of her sister.

“Don’t you speak to my sister that way!” she growls, setting a hand on the hilt of her knife.

Instinctively, he lights up his brands - then holds still as a very distinctive and loud click announces that Varric has just cocked Bianca and is holding her trained upon Fenris.

“Don’t do it, Broody,” the dwarf warns him quietly. 

Fenris lets his brands die, and Varric steps back after a moment and lowers Bianca slightly.

“Now. Why don’t we all just calm down and discuss this like friends?” he suggests in a reasonable tone.

“He betrayed me,” says Fenris quietly.

“It looked to me like he was saving your ungrateful arse from where I was standing,” argues Isabela. “Honestly, it’s a wonder you have any friends at all if that’s the way you treat someone who cares about you.”

“Cares about...!” echoes Fenris hotly, turning to glare at her; to his mortification, Varric is nodding.

“Anyone with half a brain and a pair of eyes could see it,” shrugs Isabela. “We were all expecting you two to finally figure it out between you last night.”

Fenris glares at her but the expected smirk is absent from her lips. He blinks, and remembers feeling Anders snuggle up against him in the dark hours of the morning. Touches, here and there; fingers brushing. The blush stealing across Anders’ face when he’d tucked the man’s hair back behind his ear. The sleepy smile early that morning - and the cup of tea he’d had waiting for Fenris when they’d emerged from that final cave, fixed exactly the way Fenris preferred. 

“I don’t blame him for running,” Merrill remarks quietly. “I’d have run too - and I don’t even particularly like Fenris. Did you see his eyes? He was crying.”

“Not now, Daisy,” murmurs Varric, but Fenris reels. _Crying?_ He’d thought the man’s eyes watered merely from pain, but -

“He was crying?” He glances to Varric for confirmation, and the dwarf sighs.

“Go find him, Broody. Maybe it’s not too late to apologise. Assuming you just realised you _don’t_ actually hate him after all?”

He pushes past the dwarf, ignoring Hawke as she calls his name.

Maybe it’s not too late.

***

It’s been three weeks, and there is no sign of Anders. Fenris has hunted everywhere he can think of; tirelessly, he has prowled Hightown, Lowtown, the docks - anywhere and everywhere he and Anders have been together. Anders does not know the city well; he had been on his feet such a short time, after all. Fenris had assumed his lack of knowledge was due to being held by his captors; he had never dreamed those captors were templars.

He finally swallows his pride and asks Isabela, Varric and Hawke to go with him to the Gallows. But there are no new Tranquil in the courtyard with blond hair and honey-brown eyes, and Solivitus has heard nothing of any escaped mages or apostates being brought in in the past three weeks.

Fenris feels relief wash over him at those words. Relief, that a mage has escaped and runs free. That thought should anger him, but he finds himself questioning much he’d taken for granted. He nursed Anders through long nights. He remembers the marks of torture upon that starved, milk-pale body; the screaming nightmares. He had assumed Anders a slave.

Perhaps he had not been so wrong at that.

He finds he eyes the templar patrols with different eyes now. Where once he saw them as necessary, righteous, to be admired - now he views them with suspicion, and wonders which one wielded the whip against that frail form he had nursed. How many others they had tortured.

Four weeks. A month. Two months. And still no sign of Anders.

Time passes. He still searches, but out of habit. He accompanies Hawke on various jobs. He is quiet, withdrawn; he fights readily enough, but when it is over, he returns to his mansion alone.

He sits, staring at Anders’ empty chair, and he drinks himself slowly into oblivion where he sometimes dreams of honey-brown eyes, soft dark gold hair, and a voice that huskily breathes his name. More often, he dreams of those honey-brown eyes wide in fear and pain, tears rolling down bloodless cheeks. Sometimes those dreams are nightmares in which he is cradling Anders’ lifeless form and stares at the bloody hole where the mage’s heart should be.

Those dreams are the worst.

***

Hawke has almost gathered all the coin she needs for Bartrand’s expedition. Varric says they need an edge; something Bartrand won’t be able to say no to. He’s heard of a man down in Darktown who, it’s rumoured, has maps to the Deep Roads. A Ferelden refugee. They go to see Lirene and learn the man is a healer.

They exchange glances.

“Where can we find him?” asks Hawke.

That is how Fenris finds himself walking into a ramshackle clinic in Darktown - the one place it never occurred to him to look; and it’s him. 

Anders.

Fenris’ heart leaps in his chest and he cannot speak. 

Anders is bent over a patient - a young boy. His eyes are closed as he focuses on his work, oblivious to all. As the boy gasps and sits up, Anders staggers and nearly falls; the boy’s father catches his arm and gives him a grateful look. Anders waves away his thanks and the meagre coin they offer and turns away, glancing up as he does so - then freezes for a moment as his eyes fall upon them. Upon Fenris.

He whirls and snatches up his staff then turns and brandishes it, and Fenris can feel the air become charged with power as the mage begins to draw mana to him.

“This place is a sanctum of healing - why do you threaten it?” he calls challengingly.

And his eyes as he stares at Fenris are cold as ice.


	11. Karl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A favour for a favour.

His first thought is that he’s hallucinating. He’s still reeling and dizzy from draining himself healing; it’s been a long, hard day and he’s been on the go since before dawn when he was awakened by hammering on the doors of the rudimentary little clinic he’s been able to cobble together down here in Darktown over the past few months, with help from Lirene. 

This morning it was several families carrying children and elders affected by chokedamp; then it was four miners carrying in a friend who’d been caught in a tunnel collapse; then a pregnant woman who took a tumble down the stairs from Lowtown (and Maker, but he’s fairly certain she was pushed - he’s treated her four times this month already, but she won’t say anything and all he can do is make sure the baby is OK, patch her up and send her on her way again, helpless to do anything further; and the worst of it is, her problems aren’t even that unusual here in Kirkwall - he sees far too many eyes blackened on doorknobs, bruises from tumbles down stairs, and worse), and finally the boy fished half-drowned out of the harbour.

And this is what passes for ‘normal’ for him now. Never knowing where his next meal is coming from, sharing what little he gets with his patients, refusing their coin, often healing until he drops from exhaustion. Sometimes he manages to make it to the bed in the curtained-off alcove that serves him for a bedroom; often he merely sprawls upon the nearest cot in the clinic. A couple of times, he’s woken upon the floor of the clinic itself. But he doesn’t complain. He’s finally doing _good_ with his magic; helping those even worse off than he is.

He’s grown used to waking exhausted each day; he barely even notices the hunger pangs any more - much as he did in his year in solitary. 

He blinks, but Fenris, Hawke, Varric and Bethany are still standing there in his clinic. They’re staring at him aghast. He’s aware he probably looks as disreputable as the people he treats these days; the coat he wears is shabby - a cast-off from a grateful patient. The feathers - a whimsical touch - are another cast-off, from one of the girls at the Blooming Rose; whenever the templars conduct one of their rare patrols through the slums, he takes up Madam Lucine on her offer of a bed for the night - the only fee he’s ever charged for keeping her girls and boys free of disease. He generally has his pick of which room to sleep in amongst the cheaper whores - all of whom are glad to share their bed, as all he’s ever really interested in is sleeping. 

He’s generally too exhausted to do much anyway.

He blinks again. Maker, he must be more exhausted than he thought; lost in his thoughts for a moment, and now they’re looking frankly worried. 

“Mage -” begins Fenris.

Something inside Anders snaps. _He can’t even bring himself to use my name!_ He points past Hawke at the elf.

“You - get out! Get out right now, and don’t come back!” He is glad his voice doesn’t shake as he glares at Fenris.

“Anders...” says Hawke quietly.

“I’ll talk to you, Hawke, but not him. Not after what he did,” he says quietly as he draws himself up straighter. 

Hawke glances at Fenris, and the elf looks stricken for a moment then lowers his gaze to the ground, ears drooping, and goes outside.

“Maker, Blondie... what happened to you? Have you been down here all this time?” asks Varric. “You’re half-starved!”

“The refugees don’t have much by way of coin,” Anders shrugs as he leans his staff against the wall. “What is this about, Hawke? You came here looking for something. You weren’t expecting me - your reactions told me that much.”

Varric and Hawke exchange glances.

“You’re right,” the woman says as she steps forward. “We had no idea you were here; if we _had_ , we’d have come found you much sooner. We’ve been hunting for you all over Kirkwall -”

Anders snorts derisively. “Not _all_ over Kirkwall, evidently,” he points out.

“You’re right,” she nods. “It never occurred to any of us that you might be down here.”

“Of course it didn’t,” says Anders as he glances away. “People come down to Darktown to be forgotten.”

Hawke sighs. “Anders -”

He glances at her. “What did you come down here for, Hawke? What were you expecting to find?”

She huffs in annoyance. “Alright. We’ll do it your way,” she shrugs. “I’m after maps. A little bird told me you have maps that show the nearest entrances to the Deep Roads.”

Anders fights the urge to swear. How did Hawke learn about that? He’d stolen those maps from a Grey Warden several weeks ago. He is certain there must be an exit into the sewers below the Gallows or the Chantry; he needs to get back inside to find someone.

Karl had taken a huge risk by stealing the templar’s keys and setting up a diversion to allow Anders to escape. He has no idea how he found out Anders was being kept in the dungeon below the Chantry, but it’s entirely all thanks to Karl he managed to make it out as far as Fenris’ mansion. He needs to know Karl is alright - and to break him out if at all possible. When he overheard the Grey Warden talking about the Deep Roads beneath Kirkwall, Anders had figured perhaps they might show him what he needed, but the maps were useless, and he is no closer to getting in than before. He’s managed to get a couple of notes to Karl, thanks to a couple of contacts, and he’s had replies - the most recent last night, telling Anders to come meet him in the Chantry tonight. He’s been thinking about it all day, but he can hardly just stroll into the Chantry alone.

Unless....

“Tell you what,” he says slowly, regarding Hawke thoughtfully. “A favour for a favour. You help me, and the maps are yours.”

“What kind of a favour?” asks Hawke.

“A... friend helped me break out of the Circle. He needs my help now. Come with me to the Chantry tonight, and I’ll give you the maps.” He smiles.

“Done,” says Hawke.

Anders nods, and turns away. The others glance at each other, worried, before slowly heading towards the doors. Just as Hawke reaches for the handle, Anders calls back over his shoulder.

“Oh, Marian?”

The use of her name isn’t lost on Hawke. “Yes, Anders?” Her tone is quiet, conciliatory.

“Don’t bring Fenris.”

***

His heart is racing; he feels queasy and nauseous. His palms are damp with sweat. He’d doused the lanterns outside a couple of hours ago and he should be on his way to the Chantry right now, but he feels sick with nerves. 

What if it’s a trap? What if Karl’s not there?

What if Fenris _is_?

He paces and bites his lip. He can’t _not_ go. What if Karl is there, waiting? Needing him?

It’s no good; he _has_ to go. It’s not as though he’d be going alone, after all - Hawke will be there, and Bethany, and Varric.

Not Fenris though. He’d told her not to bring the elf. He’d never known Marian Hawke to go back on her word.

He swallows hard. He’ll have to walk through Hightown, risking templar patrols, but this is for _Karl_ , and he knew Karl would risk just as much for him. Already had.

Maker, hadn’t they both already risked so much just for each other? He _loved_ Karl. This was no mere _are we or aren’t we_ fooling around as it had been with Fenris; Karl Thekla had been his first lover, and despite the danger they’d been lovers for nearly ten years before he was thrown in solitary. He’d tried to persuade Karl to come with him on that last escape, but he’d refused. _I’m too old for such antics, love,_ he’d said softly. _I’d only slow you down. Go, love; at least one of us should have the chance to be free._

“And look at me now, love,” Anders murmurs to himself absently. “Nearly a year this time. And this time you’re coming with me.”

He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and picks up his staff.

***

It’s a trap. Of _course_ it’s a trap. He should have known.

But oh, the sick feeling when Karl turns and he sees the sunburst brand upon his lover’s pale forehead....

He doesn’t really remember much of what happens after that. Templars, shouting; he fireballs the first man in armour he sees, and after that it’s all a hazy nightmare of blood and fire and screaming, and then somehow Karl is down on the floor bleeding and Varric is apologising, even though it wasn’t the dwarf’s fault.

“He stepped in the way of that templar’s sword before the templar could run you through - I’m sorry, Blondie, I couldn’t take the bastard down before he hit him.”

“It’s alright, Varric,” he hears himself saying, even as he cradles Karl and watches the light die behind his eyes. His vision swims, and he realises he’s crying.

“Anders, we have to go,” says Hawke urgently. “We have to get out of here.”

He lets her drag him away; there’s nothing here for him now. Karl’s blood is on his hands - in more ways than one. It may have been a templar who took Karl’s life, but he is dead because of Anders.

“He was trying to protect you,” Bethany tells him. He looks up. Somehow, they’re all back in the Hanged Man, and Isabela is there, pushing a glass of something into his hand. Bethany’s words don’t make any sense; Karl was Tranquil. Anders had no longer meant anything to him. He just happened to blunder in the way.

Anders ignores Bethany and knocks back the drink in his hand. It burns on the way down and he coughs, but he’s glad of it because it’s something he can actually _feel_ , and he’s been numb inside since he saw the brand upon Karl’s forehead. Nothing feels real.

“Who was he?” asks Varric, and Anders smiles sadly.

“My first,” he answers, and then suddenly he’s crying, his whole body shuddering with the sobs, and he can’t catch his breath and his chest hurts, almost as much as it did when Fenris had had his hand around his heart.

_He should have torn it out_ , Anders thinks dully. Maybe Karl would still be alive if he had. It couldn’t have hurt any more.

“Don’t say that,” says Hawke fiercely, and Anders blinks through his tears, unaware he’d even spoken aloud but she’s shaking his shoulders, those fierce blue eyes staring into his. “Don’t you _ever_ say that. Templars are all bastards - don’t blame yourself for what they do! You’re a good man, Anders, and what happened was not your fault.”

He tries to speak but he can’t even seem to catch his breath between sobs. How can he make her understand?

There’s a hand patting his back, and Hawke staring into his eyes, and it’s all too much.

He pulls away, lurching to his feet. “I’m sorry. I’m - sorry,” he manages, and then he’s running.

Running away again. Always running away. But that’s all he knows how to do anymore.

***

Hawke drops by the clinic a few days later on her own. Bartrand’s expedition to the Deep Roads is in a week. She’s finally got the coin she needed, and between that and the maps, Bartrand has agreed to make her a partner. And she wants Anders to come along with her.

“Will Fenris be there?” he asks, not glancing around as he continues rolling up bandages.

“Ye-e-es?” she ventures tentatively.

“Then no,” he says tersely, turning away.

“Anders...!”

“He tried to kill me!” snaps Anders, throwing the bandage down and turning to glare at her. “The slavers would have killed him so I risked my own life, fighting to help him and _healing_ that ungrateful bastard and he _tried to kill me!_ ” He glares at her.

“Anders, he’s sorry -”

He laughs, disbelievingly. “ _He’s_ sorry? And that makes it all better, does it?”

“No, but -”

“No. If he’s coming, then I’m not.” He turns away and folds his arms, not even making a pretence at rolling up bandages now. He’s hurt and angry that she should even ask him after what that bloody elf did - what he _nearly_ did. _I trusted him. I cared for him._ “I was a fool to ever think -” He snaps his mouth shut, refusing to give further voice to his thoughts.

“Anders,” says Hawke softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Anders, I _need_ you. I can’t do this without you.”

“And him?”

“I need him too,” sighs Hawke. “Anders... please look at me....”

He turns, unwillingly. He _knows_. But he lets her turn him around, and he looks down into those piercing blue eyes.

“I _need_ you, Anders,” she repeats.

He hates himself. But he goes.


	12. Into the Deep Roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At each other's throats and into the darkness.

He’s checked and rechecked his supplies of bandages, healing herbs and potions several times. A small cooking pot, a wooden bowl, and an earthenware cup (with only one chip in the rim) are nestled one inside the other atop his thin grey woollen blanket, which in turn is stashed on top of his only spare shirt. Hawke assures him there will be adequate food supplies, but he has a stash of dried peas and lentils in packets at the bottom of his pack - a gift from Lirene when he’d mentioned he would be leaving with Hawke and would be away from the clinic for perhaps a month.

He has carefully packed every stub of candle he possesses inside a twist of brown paper; and a small dark green bottle containing a sleeping draught. He hopes they will be enough to quell the night fears.

He’s read of the Deep Roads; read about the different types of darkspawn, enough to have given him restless dreams afterwards. He’s read of the taint, how it leads to the Blight - and how the Blight is incurable; and Maker but that’s a hard thing to read for a healer. Even the few mages recruited to the Grey Wardens apparently can’t heal it - even immune to the taint as they are.

He’s fascinated by that thought and wonders what secret they possess that grants them such immunity.

But mostly he’s apprehensive. They’re going to be underground - possibly for weeks - and he’s in a cold sweat just _thinking_ about the claustrophobic confines of those caves so far below the surface, and the impenetrable dark waiting just beyond torchlight’s glow.

It’s almost enough to distract him from Fenris’ presence as they wait for Hawke, Bethany and their mother to finish arguing. Bethany is insistent she wants to come. Leandra demands she stay. It’s embarrassing to stand there and try to pretend it’s not happening, out of politeness; Varric catches his eye, and they exchange rueful shrugs. Anders wonders what it’s like to have a mother to worry about your well-being like that.

He briefly wonders if his own mother ever thinks of him. He hasn’t seen her since he was twelve. Then he shakes himself; such thoughts will only make him maudlin and morose, and Maker knows he has enough problems on his plate without that.

Like a certain prickly elf who seems to have decided the way to deal with Anders’ anger is to ignore him. That shouldn’t bother him - except it does. The elf may have told Hawke he was sorry - but he has made no attempt of apology to _him_ , to Anders, for the way he nearly killed him (or for the nightmares he has had since that day, though they’ve slowly faded to become simply one more part of the deeply unpleasant dreams he has had nearly every night since his escape). 

As if he hadn’t been dreading this whole expedition ever since Hawke wheedled out of him his agreement to come, it looks like he now has weeks of silent treatment from Fenris to look forward to.

_It’s really most unfair._ He’s unaware he’s pouting slightly as he leans upon his staff - that same staff made of driftwood that Fenris gave him what seems a lifetime ago now. 

***

Fenris shifts his balance from one foot to the other and tries to ignore the blond apostate as he pouts moodily. He’s having to fight hard against the urge to turn and look at him - to reach out, touch him. He feels an irrational anger at the urge. He had felt such relief when they found the mage in the very last place any of them would have thought to look, only for that relief to give way to dismay when he saw how the mage’s clothes hung loose upon his gaunt frame - nearly all the weight he’d so slowly put back on during his recovery lost again to starvation. And then that dismay turned to grief when the mage turned those cold eyes upon him. Cold eyes, but fierce burning anger behind him - anger that he had flung against Fenris with more devastating effect than if he’d unleashed a spell.

He’d called him ‘mage’, and kicked himself inwardly the moment it left his lips; he had seen the brief flash of grief and hurt that gave way to fury as the blond apostate had ordered him out.

And he had gone. How could he not? He could not blame the mage for his anger. And now? There is no point in trying to talk to him. That one word lies between them and cannot be taken back. What would be the use in trying to apologise? The mage does not wish his company. Best to remain silent and avoid him, insofar as that is possible on the expedition they about about to embark upon.

He turns to glance towards Hawke, and out of the corner of his eye he cannot help but see the blond apostate’s pout - and he feels an irrational surge of anger. What cause has he to brood thus? He has made his feelings about Fenris quite clear. He knows the mage refused at first to come when Hawke told him of his presence. This pouting and moodiness is childish nonsense, and it irritates Fenris. He scowls and stares instead at Hawke, who is returning to them alone.

“Where’s Sunshine?” asks Varric with concern.

“Mother pointed out that if we both go into the Deep Roads, she’ll have only Gamlen to protect her in case of trouble. Bethany’s staying behind,” says Hawke tersely. The look in her eye warns them not to push the matter.

Varric sighs and shrugs.

Varric’s brother struts around, makes a few off-colour jokes that get no laughs, then the expedition sets out. Bartrand has picked a likely-looking entrance to the Deep Roads from the maps Hawke obtained from the mage, and it isn’t long before they’re all filing down into the caves.

Fenris can’t help but notice the way the mage keeps glancing back towards the cave entrance and daylight until it is gone from view. The blond apostate reluctantly turns his attention to the way ahead, his face pale in the light from their torches, a white-knuckled grip upon his staff.

Fenris focuses on the tunnels ahead and tells himself that the mage’s response to the dark is not his concern.

***

Two weeks in the dark, and Fenris isn’t the only one who’s noticed the mage’s problem with being underground. He’s aware of Varric and Hawke talking about it quietly when they think both he and the mage are asleep. Not that the blond apostate sleeps much, or particularly well; he is restless, tossing and turning beneath the thin blanket, occasional whimpers escaping him. Fenris flinches when he hears those stifled noises, bracing himself for the screaming - but the mage has only woken screaming twice thus far (and woken the whole camp doing so, much to Bartrand’s disgust).

The mage takes first watch every night, and when relieved he takes his thin blanket and curls up where he can see the glow of the campfire. He spends far too long tossing and turning, his eyes focused upon the flickering flames of the fire until his eyes finally close and he falls into an exhausted sleep.

There is nothing for them to do except walk each day. It seems the mage is incapable of walking in silence; it rarely takes long until his voice is heard - a joke shared with Varric, a comment to Hawke. Fenris makes the mistake of answering one such comment without thinking, and the mage gives him a filthy look before snapping some terse rejoinder.

Fenris cannot help himself; he snipes back, and it devolves into a petty quarrel that Hawke has to break up. An hour later, Fenris can’t even remember what it was they argued about. After that, it seems neither of them can avoid snide comments laced with vitriol, barbs they throw at each other - taking out their hurts upon each other in a slow war of attrition. They may not bleed, but the cuts sting nonetheless.

The mage seems to take particular pleasure in needling Fenris about magic and the treatment of mages, and Fenris cannot help but rise to the bait. The blonde apostate seems to take almost a perverse pleasure in using his magic at every opportunity - lighting the cookfire with a gesture, calling up light to illuminate their path, and so forth. It feels like he is rubbing Fenris’ nose in it - flaunting his nature in the elf’s face. As though he is revelling in the ability he kept hidden so long.

It doesn’t endear him to Fenris.

The snapping at each other wears upon both Hawke and Varric’s nerves, but eventually they all settle into an uneasy new normal for their group. Varric becomes very deft at diverting conversation before either Fenris or the mage can bring up the subject of mages or magic in general; yet still it seems to crop up far too often for anyone’s comfort, least of all for Fenris. Sometimes they stumble into the subject without meaning to.

And then the tunnel they are following comes to a dead end thanks to a rock fall.

Of _course_ the dwarf cook’s son picks that moment to get himself lost; and of course Hawke volunteers to look for him as they seek a way around the rockfall - which means all four of them find themselves heading off into the tunnels whilst the rest of the expedition sets up camp.

“At least Sunshine’s managed to avoid _this_ kind of fun,” muses Varric as they make their way through a particularly dank cave; there’s an underground river around here somewhere. They’ve been able to hear it trickling through the rocks somewhere unseen for a couple of hours now.

“I’m sure Beth’s have plenty of other fun without us,” shrugs Hawke. “I wonder if she’s set Gamlen’s hair on fire yet. Maker knows the bastard would deserve it too.”

“Bethany doesn’t strike me as the kind of mage who would set someone’s hair on fire without a really good reason,” the mage remarks with a small smile. Hawke laughs.

“Trust me, Anders - ten minutes in Gamlen’s company and you’d want to set his hair on fire too!” she assures him.

“I am sure Sunshine has better self-control than that,” smiles Varric.

“Unlike certain other mages,” sneers Fenris quietly - but not so quietly that the blond apostate doesn’t hear. He whirls and glares at Fenris.

“Are you ever going to stop harping on the mages here?” he snaps.

“No,” Fenris replies tersely.

“They aren’t what you saw in Tevinter!” exclaims the mage as Hawke and Varric sigh and roll their eyes. Fenris ignores them.

“The moment they are free, mages will make themselves magisters,” he answers implacably.

“What? Bethany hasn’t! _I_ haven’t!” the blond apostate exclaims in disbelief.

“Yet,” replies Fenris, succinctly.

The mage splutters for a moment. “You _saw_ what they’d done to me - they’re slaves! You should want to help them!”

“I don’t,” Fenris answers, and it’s true. He has no interest in helping any mage ever again - intentionally or otherwise. He wouldn’t have helped _this_ one, if he’d known.

“You’d have let me die if you’d known what I really was, wouldn’t you?” says the mage quietly, as though he’s reading Fenris’ mind.

“Probably,” agrees Fenris. He makes the mistake of looking at the mage as he does so and is rewarded by the look of shock on the man’s face. It gives way to a look of deep hurt before the mage’s expression becomes shuttered and he turns away, silent, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

Fenris has gotten the better of this exchange but he feels no sense of satisfaction as Hawke hurries to catch up with the mage, resting a hand upon his arm as he glances down at her, a look of misery upon his face.

Fenris feels a sharp pang of... what? Jealousy? Guilt?

He scowls and stomps past them, irrationally angry with himself.

“We should move on,” he growls.


	13. Night Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders really, REALLY doesn't like the dark.

Anders can’t believe Fenris would have let him die. Things are bad between them - but that he’s effectively admitted he wishes Anders were dead?

That hurts. It hurts far more than he’s willing to let on.

He can feel Varric’s eyes on him as Hawke walks beside him. She walks close enough that occasionally, the backs of her fingers brush against his. As the walls and the ceiling seem almost to be closing in around him and the magelight upon the tip of his staff trembles and wavers slightly, he draws strength and calm from her presence at his side, those accidental little brushes of her hand like silent reassurances that _she_ cares whether he lives or dies, even if Fenris does not.

Maker, but he hates the Deep Roads - and they haven’t even reached them properly yet. They’ve just been picking their way through these caves for several hours, trying to find a way around the cave-in. They try to circle back towards the rock-fall but just keep ending up in dead-ends that they have to backtrack out of - and each time it happens it does nothing for Anders’ composure. They seem to be getting further and further away from where they need to be.

Anders’ maps are useless here; they don’t show the cave-in, and whoever drew them up evidently hadn’t explored the cave complexes away from the main tunnels. They are on their own, at least for the moment, figuratively as well as literally.

He has no idea what time it is, but eventually Hawke calls a halt and says they should make camp and eat. One cave is as good as another; they pick one with just the one entrance, and settle in with cold rations - they hadn’t bothered bringing firewood with them for this scouting mission. Still, Anders is able to brew tea for them all thanks to judicious use of heat magic. Anders can’t help but notice that as much as Fenris claims to hate magic and mages, he has no qualms in drinking tea brewed by use of fire magic. He is tempted to point this out until he sees Varric and Hawke exchange a worried glance - at which point the desire to fight leaves him abruptly and he just feels tired and sore at heart.

He takes the first watch and the others turn in, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the dark for company.

The dark... Maker, it creeps in all around, a thick, ink-black, impenetrable cloak drawn around them, kept at bay only by the globe of magelight above his head.

It’s not the same as solitary, he reminds himself. The sounds are different. There, he would strain his ears for the sounds of the templars changing shift, or bringing him food - when they remembered or could be bothered. Sometimes they only brought the whip. Sometimes they would let him go a couple of days until he was near-delirious from thirst and he would do anything for only a cup of water. 

And he did.

_No. Don’t think of that._ If he thinks on it too much he’ll find himself straining to hear the sound of armour, and then he’ll start imagining he can actually hear it and that way lies madness.

He’d often wondered if he would go mad, during those long months in the dark. Sometimes he wondered if he would know if he had. 

_Stop thinking of it._

It’s hard to stop the flood of thoughts once they start, and Maker but he’s had to try and distract himself almost every single night since they left the light behind. It wasn’t so bad whilst they were with the rest of the expedition - but there’s no campfire here, no quiet talk of mercenary guards as they change shifts or the ones on watch talk quietly amongst themselves. He focuses instead on the soft breathing of Hawke, Varric and - Maker damn him, yes, on the elf as well. Fenris may wish Anders had died, but Anders doesn’t regret going to the elf’s aid. He doesn’t wish Fenris dead, even now. 

Love and hate are so very similar, he finds himself thinking; and one turns to the other all too quickly. Yet he doesn’t hate Fenris, he realises; what he feels is fear, regret, anger, sadness. Betrayed – yes, that too. He'd trusted Fenris – and the elf had nearly killed him. If Hawke hadn't been there, then he'd be dead; he'd seen it in the elf's eyes. Fenris had been in a murderous rage.

And if the elf is furious over Anders' deception, well – his reaction shows that Anders was only right to have been afraid and to have kept his secret so long? He never _asked_ to fall in -

_Woah, woah, back right up on that thought._ That was getting into dangerous territory. He didn't fall in _anything_ except a horrible mess, and he's been doing nothing but try to make the best of it ever since. He hasn't the coin to get out of Kirkwall, so he stayed and he's turned his magic into something good, that no-one needs to be afraid of. He's been slowly turning around people's opinions of mages, one patient at a time. The templars rarely come by Darktown – and when they do, he's helped enough of the Ferelden refugees that someone always comes to warn him. Madam Lucine appreciates his skills as well – the Blooming Rose would be a far less pleasant place without him nipping any nasty infections in the bud. ( _Blooming Rose. Bud. Heh, must remember that one; Varric will appreciate it._ )

He rubs his eyes tiredly. That's the thing about being on watch; too long alone with his own thoughts. He's had enough of that to last a lifetime, really.

He wonders what time it is above ground. Maker, what he wouldn't give for the sight of the sky right now. He tries not to think about the hundreds ( _thousands_ ) of feet of rock above his head.

He can still hear the trickling of that underground river somewhere, and the steady drip-drip-drip of water. It, and the soft breathing of his companions, keeps him company until it's time to wake Hawke. She nods to him as he moves to his pack and takes out his blanket. He pulls out one of the small stubs of candle and lights it with a small spark of magic, then sets it upon the ground in front of him as he curls up under the thin wool blanket with his pack for a pillow. He eventually falls asleep watching the candle flame.

***  
He awakens screaming in the dark, and then he is screaming _because_ it is dark. He cannot see anything when he opens his eyes; all is blackness, beneath him is cold hard stone, and all he can hear is the sound of his own screams echoing off stone surfaces and it is solitary all over again, confinement; he does not remember where he is and he wails, begs, pleads without realising he is doing it – only let him out, let him _go_ Maker please have mercy, not the whip again – please, hasn't he been good? -

Light flares in the darkness; a low growled curse of “ _Venhedis_ , mage!” and he blinks as the elf's brands illuminate the cave – and then Anders recoils away from Fenris, that part of his nightmare far too fresh in his mind.

“No, don't kill me, please – I never meant to, I didn't – please!” he begs, turning his face away as he presses his back against the cold hard stone and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Anders! Anders, it's alright, you're safe, it was just a dream!”

Hands upon his shoulders, a low, soft voice; and then a warm hand cups his cheek and turns his face. He opens his eyes and it's Hawke – and Maker, but her blue eyes are beautiful and in that moment he loves her, because if Marian Hawke is cupping his cheek with her warm hand then he can't be in that stone cell any more and Fenris isn't about to kill him.

He doesn't cry, though he can feel his throat tightening and his eyes stinging; he closes his eyes and exhales slowly. “Sorry,” he finally manages, when he thinks he can trust his voice. “Bad dream.”

“The mage is afraid of the dark,” mutters the elf.

“Yes, well, so would you be if you'd spent a year in the dark in solitary,” Anders snaps, his voice brittle and sharp and Maker, he is so not in the mood for the elf's sniping right now – not with his nerves still so frayed and raw.

“You -” begins the elf, and Hawke whirls and glares at him. 

“Shut up. Shut. _UP!_ ” she snaps. “You've been carping and sneering at him the whole past two weeks and I am so far beyond done with you and your shit right now Fenris. You _know_ what he went through, yet you still can't keep your damned mouth shut for once? He was _tortured_ , Fenris! You of all people should understand what that does to a person! For once just show a little empathy and compassion!”

“It was merely an observation,” says Fenris quietly – almost meekly, Anders might have said, except this is Fenris and Fenris is never meek. 

He is also not looking at Anders. His lyrium brands still shine, but dimmer now – a soft, silvery glow. Anders can feel the pain radiating from the elf's form, and he wonders why he does not let the light die. It can't be because he's worried about Anders. After all, he _did_ try to kill him.

Anders rummages in his pack for another candle stub. He lights it with a gesture, then curls up again beneath the blanket, his head pillowed against his pack once more.

“Anders?” asks Hawke gently.

“I'll be fine,” murmurs Anders.

She and Varric return to their bedrolls; Fenris slowly lets his brands go dark, until the only source of light is the little flickering candle flame. Anders stares into it as his eyes grow heavy, until sleep claims him once more.

***

The small cave is lit by firelight when Varric gently shakes his shoulder. It seems he only just closed his eyes a few minutes ago, and he still feels tired as he sits up and stares at the fire in bemusement. 

“Varric had a couple of candles,” explains Hawke. “So I took one whilst he kept watch here, and I think I've found a likely way to get back to the Deep Roads. There's the remains of another rockfall not far ahead, where I think part of the cavern wall collapsed into what might have been smuggler's tunnels once upon a time – and I found the remains of a broken crate that made a pretty good fire.” She grins.

“Think it'll lead us to the Deep Roads?” asks Anders, and she shrugs.

“Maybe. We'll check it out once we've had something to eat.”

The rations are cold, but the tea is hot and helps revive him enough to chase away the last fleeting fragments of his dreams. He lets them go, glad to be awake. He is aware of Fenris' eyes upon him but ignores the elf. By mutual unspoken agreement none of them speak of the events of the night.

Anders calls up magelight again then Varric douses the fire once they've eaten and drunk their fill, before they head on through the caves until they come to the rockfall Hawke mentioned. The way opens out, and they briefly explore one way up the tunnel until they recognise a place they'd passed the previous day; if they'd taken the left passage instead of the right, they'd have found the tunnel sooner. They exchange rueful looks, then return back down the tunnel to explore further.

They find a set of stairs hewn into the rock and exchange glances; this looks more promising. They head down the stairs and turn the corner -

And Anders realises that none of the books he's read about the Deep Roads and the Blights have ever truly prepared him for his first encounter with darkspawn. 

The creatures look vaguely human at first glance – at least from behind. Until they turn and reveal mouths far too wide for any human, teeth too sharp, eyes milk-white and Blighted yet somehow full of an animalistic hate that chills his blood. They are dressed in rusted, mismatched armour and Maker, the _smell_ ….

None of his books ever prepared him for _that_.

“Genlocks!” shouts Hawke, and belatedly he manages to shake off the horrified paralysis that seems to have gripped him at first sight of these unclean creatures. He throws up shields over everyone – including the prickly elf. Because of _course_ Fenris just leapt straight into the middle of the pack of those creatures wielding his sword with no thought for his own safety – and regardless of how Anders may feel about the elf, he's not going to stand back and do nothing.

He is unused to fighting; it doesn't come naturally to him, but he has to admit there's something about being forced to fight for one's life that's a marvellously-quick and effective teacher – well, assuming you're still alive at the end to reflect upon it afterwards. He's still alive and he's reflecting, so he assumes he did it right. Not that the genlocks got much chance to get near him – between the elf's huge sword, Varric's crossbow and Hawke's knives, there hadn't been much to do apart from fireball a couple of genlocks that got away from Fenris and somehow managed to dodge Bianca's bolts. 

“Andraste's flaming knickers, those bastards are _fast_ ,” he exclaims as he walks to join the others. “Is everyone alright? Anyone need healing?”

They've been lucky, it seems – but he knows the dangers of the taint thanks to his reading, and he checks them all very carefully both with his eyes and also with his magic. The elf snarls and makes to pull away, but Anders is having none of it – not over this.

“I don't care how you feel about me, elf – I'm not having anyone contracting the Blight whilst I have any say in the matter, and that includes you – so shut up and let me work,” he growls.

Fenris darts a look at Hawke and she merely glares at him, daring him to say anything. He lowers his gaze to the floor and holds his tongue whilst Anders checks him over carefully before stepping back with a look of relief that he doesn't bother trying to hide.

“All clear,” he says, and turns away to pick up his staff.

“Mage?” says Fenris quietly. Anders straightens and glances at him.

“What?”

But Fenris says nothing, merely stares at him quizzically before turning away.

Anders shakes his head in exasperation. He's given up trying to fathom what's going on in the elf's head now. As long as Fenris isn't _actively_ trying to kill him, he doesn't care.

A few hours later, Anders has seen all he never wished to see of darkspawn, thank you very much. More genlocks, a pack of hurlocks, and something Hawke calls an emissary – and _that_ one wielded magic, though no form of magic that Anders has ever encountered. That… _thing_ … was accompanied by more hurlocks, and the others busy themselves with the other darkspawn whilst Anders finds himself duelling the emissary. He's kept too busy dispelling or deflecting the emissary's magic and countering with attacks of his own to realise until afterwards just how terrified he was during the fight; by the time the emissary is just an unpleasant greasy stain upon the ground and the heat from Anders' last fireball has dissipated, he finally has a chance to register how hard his heart is pounding and the nauseating feeling of adrenaline slowly leaving his body, leaving him feeling cold and shaky. He masks it by checking each of the others thoroughly for wounds or signs of the taint.

The giant spider is almost an anticlimax after that.

They head down another set of stairs, and emerge into a large room hewn from the stone itself that is strewn with darkspawn corpses. In the middle is a dwarf youth, idly scratching his arse as he stares up at what appears to be a frozen ogre caught in mid-roar.

“Well, well, well,” says Varric slowly. “Bodahn's boy. And alive.”

“What happened here?” asks Hawke as she crouches down in front of Sandal. He holds out a small white stone.

“Boom,” he grins. Hawke's eyebrows lift upwards in surprise, and then she glances at the frozen ogre.

“And that?” she asks him.

“Not enchantment,” says Sandal. Then picks his nose.

Varric shakes his head and exchanges glances with Hawke. Anders stares at the dwarf youth, who looks up at him with a vacant smile then presses the white stone into his hand. He stares down at it in surprise.

“You want _me_ to have it?” he asks, nonplussed. Sandal merely grins and tugs at his staff. Anders lets him take it as Sandal takes the stone back then turns away for a moment. 

When he hands the staff back to Anders, he sees that somehow Sandal has managed to set the stone actually inside the twisting cage of branches atop his staff. The sun-bleached driftwood is hard and unyielding and try as he might, Anders can't see how he managed to get the stone inside without snapping the wood – but there it is; the oval stone is now set neatly inside as though the branches had grown around it naturally.

And the staff actually _feels_ different. Whereas before he had simply felt some sort of natural resonance within the wood but no more, now he can feel a definite thrum of power – and as he holds the staff and stares at the stone, the magelight he'd cast upon the staff seems to glow brighter.

“Nice staff,” murmurs Varric.

“I have no idea what he just did,” says Anders faintly. “Or even how.”

“Come on,” says Hawke. “Let's get the kid back to his father. We still need to find a way around that rockfall.”


	14. The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes guilt can be a great incentive.

He’s almost beginning to get used to fighting darkspawn now. Almost. There’s still the first moment of almost-pants-wetting terror whenever they run into yet another group of the foul creatures; he dreads every time that he’s going to find himself facing down another emissary, but they’ve only run into the one thus far. But he’s holding his own, and not doing so badly.

The dragon though - now _that_ , he wasn’t expecting. On first sight of the huge red beast launching itself into the air, he freezes.

It’s one thing to read a description of a dragon and idly try to imagine the size; quite another to see it, hear it; to feel the wind from its wings buffet him, whipping his hair loose from his hair tie and swirl dust into his eyes as it roars, to feel the heat of -

Maker, the heat of its fiery breath that is _coming straight for him oh shitohshitohshitohshit -_

“Move, mage!” growls a voice and then Fenris’ arm is about his waist as the elf drags him out of the way, flames licking over the spot where he was standing frozen in terror only a second before. He clutches at Fenris’ arm in a panic just before they go down hard and roll into the shelter of some fallen rocks.

Anders finds himself sprawled upon his back, staring up into emerald green eyes, his breath stolen. Fenris stares down at him and for a moment the elf’s lips part as if to speak as Anders lies there, stunned; and then the elf wrenches himself away to dive back into the fray, leaving Anders to scramble back to his feet and shake off the paralysis of fear as best he can and try and wrest his panic back under control enough to cast.

The dragon dies hard and slow. Anders is run ragged trying to duck the dragon’s tail, the rake of its claws and more blasts of its flaming breath even as he keeps up haste and shield spells, healing when he can. It’s harder to heal at a distance but it’s not as though they can afford to stand still or he to get close enough to lay a hand upon them. He patches them up as best he can to keep them moving and fighting, getting off the odd lightning bolt here and there when he can. Even then, they take wounds - a cut here, a scrape there, nicks and contusions that he hasn’t the time to heal fully.

Finally the beast fails to move fast enough, and Fenris buries his immense sword in its heart. For a heart-stopping moment Anders thinks the elf has been crushed beneath the immense weight of the monster’s carcass, until Fenris walks incorporeal through the side of the dead dragon then begins to unconcernedly clean his blade as the glow of his lyrium dies.

Anders tells himself it is the adrenaline of the fight that has his heart still racing, his hands shaking as he goes to the others to heal all the cuts, scrapes and burns he couldn’t deal with during the fight. He ignores his own pains and aches, the throb in his ankle, the cut over his eye that drips down the side of his face; his own hurts can wait until everyone else has been healed.

It isn’t until Hawke steadies him with her hand that he realises how close he is to collapse. “Hey, take it easy, you’re about dead on your feet, Anders,” she remarks, concerned. “Your head is bleeding -”

“I’m fine,” he argues, shaking his head. He pulls away; he’s exhausted, yes, but he can _feel_ the pain radiating from Fenris and thinks _how bloody typical, stubborn idiot_ as he heads towards the elf.

“Save your energy, mage,” growls Fenris as he hunches over slightly, favouring his left side. There’s an angry red burn down the outside of Fenris’ left arm, and with a pang of guilt Anders realises the elf must have been caught in that initial burst of flame that had been meant for him.

“I shall take a potion -”

“Shut up,” snaps Anders, finally losing his temper. “Just shut it. You have two broken ribs, that’s a third-degree burn down your arm and you are going to sit the hell down and let me heal them before one of those ribs can puncture your lung, you stupid stubborn elf, do you hear me?” He’s damned if he’s going to let the elf martyr himself to his hatred of magic.

The elf glares at him, but allows Anders to heal him in silence. The moment his mana starts to flow, Anders can feel it faltering; he’s tapped out, drained dry. He closes his eyes and doesn’t think twice, reaching inside to fuel the healing with a little of his own life force in place of his mana. He opens his eyes and glares back at the elf in return once he’s done, and Fenris finally glances away.

“You’re welcome,” Anders sneers as he turns on his heel and then nearly falls over as his vision greys over. He’s aware of a hand around his waist, a voice speaking his name; and then nothing.

  


***

  


“Anders? Anders, can you hear me?” Hawke’s voice.

He opens his eyes, and she breathes a sigh of relief. “You gave us quite a start,” she smiles. "You went white as a sheet then just keeled over. Fenris caught you before you could hit the ground.”

He groans. Because what he so needs right now is for Fenris to catch him like some swooning maiden - or the lowliest apprentice healer the first time they see blood. Maker knows, the elf hates him enough as it is.

Hawke helps him to sit up; it’s then he realises he’s sitting on his bedroll, and there’s a fire lit.

“How long was I out for?” he asks, his heart sinking.

“About four hours, Blondie,” replies Varric as he glances up from where he’s been putting together a meal. 

“What happened?” asks Hawke; he’s aware of Fenris watching him.

“Tapped out of mana,” he shrugs. “Drained myself and hadn’t realised how exhausted I really was.”

Hawke regards him sternly, then holds out a vial of lyrium. “Next time, ask; I generally carry a couple on me in case Bethany needs them.” She grins suddenly and ruffles his hair as she straightens.

“Hey!” he protests, but he’s smiling as he tucks the vial away.

  


***

  


He should have guessed he would have nightmares again that night. He jerks half-awake, heart racing, to feel a hand stroking gently through his hair, soothing and gently reassuring.

“Thanks, Hawke,” he manages drowsily as he drops back off to sleep.

  


***

  


Fenris blinks as the mage mumbles Hawke’s name, then scowls at Varric as he catches sight of the dwarf’s knowing look - though he does not pull his hand away from the mage’s soft blond hair.

He had had the feeling the mage’s sleep might be uneasy this night and had sat down near him. He’d made it look accidental but in truth, he simply wishes to be -

_Venhedis_. Close to the mage. There, he has admitted it to himself, even if he will not to the mage himself, much less the others, no matter how many knowing smirks the dwarf may give. Let the dwarf think he has the answers; he knows nothing of what is truly in Fenris’ heart, much less that of the mage.

_No more than do I,_ he realises himself. The mage has been cold and distant with him ever since they found him in his Darktown clinic, and they have been bickering angrily ever since they came down here. The mage had kept much to himself before outing himself to come to Fenris’ aid, and he keeps his secrets just as close now - if not closer. Certainly he is unlikely to bare his heart to Fenris.

The constant darkness, the ever-present danger of darkspawn - they are not conducive to bringing out the best in anybody, much less a claustrophobic mage who has never seen such dangers before. The darkspawn are the stuff of nightmares enough by themselves, but he is fairly certain tonight’s terrors featured the dragon they fought earlier.

He had been unsurprised when the mage froze in terror at sight of the beast; Fenris had been momentarily surprised himself, and he at least has seen a dragon before. This one wasn’t even a particularly big one, but he remembered how petrified he had been, the first time he had seen one. And that one hadn’t even been breathing fire at him.

He hadn’t even noticed the burn down his arm in the immediate aftermath of slaying the beast; he should have guessed the mage had however. He feels guilt still that even after Fenris snarled at him, he insisted on expending the last of his magic to heal the elf instead of his own cuts and scrapes. 

He slowly strokes the soft golden hair and frowns to himself. It is easy to pretend to himself that he hates the mage when they are snarling at each other; hard when he looks down at Anders’ face in sleep and notes again how pale he is; how thin and pale and tired all the time and know that it was _his_ fault the blond apostate was reduced to this state. When he stares down at Anders’ unconscious face, he doesn’t see the magic. He sees only the man he nursed back to health; the cut upon his brow, the shadows beneath his closed eyes.

“Tell him, Broody,” says Varric quietly.

“How can I?” he asks in reply. “He hates me. Fears me. I hurt him, betrayed him; I showed him precisely why he was right to have deceived me. I drove him away.”

“So tell him you’re sorry,” shrugs the dwarf.

He glances up at Varric. “How?” he asks helplessly. “You have seen how he is around me. Every time we talk, we quarrel.”

“You need to start giving him reason to trust you, Broody,” shrugs Varric. “Stop talking maybe for long enough to hear what he’s actually saying. And then maybe he’ll do the same for you.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris sighs. 

“Get some rest, Broody,” shrugs Varric. “I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

  


***

  


Fenris wakes Hawke for her watch and turns in. He doesn’t mention his talk with Varric. In the morning, he is awakened by the sound of Anders, sleepily querulous, asking why she didn’t wake him for his watch - and Fenris wonders when it was that he started thinking of him as _Anders_ again and not merely _the mage_.

“Because you passed out last night when you pushed yourself too hard,” she replies. “Anders, you needed the rest. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t. When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

Anders glances away, and Fenris knows Hawke has won.

Fenris finds himself on the receiving end of Anders’ gaze instead; as Anders’ gaze hardens to an unfriendly stare, he bites back the urge to snap or snarl at Anders as he customarily would, instead dropping his gaze slightly - much as he might approach a wary animal. From the way Anders’ brow furrows slightly in perplexion, it seems the blond apostate was expecting vitriol, not an uncharacteristically non-confrontational elf. 

When Anders glances away again, Fenris lifts his head slightly and is gratified to see Anders’ hard stare has instead softened to a look of confusion as he packs his bedroll away.

It is a start.


	15. The Lyrium Idol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things can always get worse, as Bartrand proves.

Anders can’t fathom the elf. First he tries to kill Anders when he finally finds out what he truly is (and Maker, but Isabela had been right about that - she’d tried to warn him, but he’d never had the chance to _explain_ to Fenris and maybe, just _maybe_ , if those slavers hadn’t burst in at just that precise moment everything could have been so different - _no, don’t think about that, it doesn’t matter now anyway_ and Maker, but he’s so tired of hurting over that even now, months on), and then he’s snapping and arguing with Anders at every turn, baiting him every chance he gets - and every time Anders awakens screaming from a nightmare the elf _stares_ at him. _Silently gloating at my weakness,_ Anders thinks, and hates the bitter taste the thought leaves in his mouth and the way his stomach twists.

But he can’t quite work out what it was in the look on the elf’s face when he’d turned away from Anders. He’d been sure the elf was just spoiling for yet another fight but instead he’d turned away, and the look upon his face -

Anders is tired. Too tired to figure it out any further, even after Hawke let him sleep all through the night. He tries half-heartedly to argue with Hawke over that but when she gives him an exasperated look, he shrugs sheepishly.

“Anders, you’re allowed to rest sometimes, you know?” she says fondly. She reaches out a hand to brush a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, and he holds still as he stares into her blue eyes. She smiles, and he feels his heart give an odd little jump as he catches his breath.

Then she’s turning away and he hastily tries to recover his equilibrium. Maker, what’s wrong with him? He’ll be making moon eyes at the dwarf next! He turns away and hides his embarrassment by busying himself with packing away his bedroll and blanket.

No-one is more grateful than Anders when they finally descend yet another rough-hewn set of stairs and find themselves stumbling through a vast crack in the rock to find themselves standing upon cracked stone paving, the vast long hallway lit by the indetermined red glow so characteristic of the Deep Roads. They stare at each other in relief, and Anders even grins at the elf, who looks startled for a moment before hesitantly returning Anders’ smile - until he notices Varric giving him a knowing smirk, whereupon Fenris scowls suddenly and turns away, muttering something about moving on.

Anders can feel his face fall, and for once he doesn’t bother trying to hide it. For a moment he’d hoped -

No. A foolish dream. The elf had already declared he would have let Anders die if he’d known what he truly was; Anders should just take him at his word instead of looking for something that isn’t there.

A hand upon his arm startles him out of his wistful thoughts and he glances to Hawke who is regarding him with a sympathetic look.

“It’s alright,” she tells him quietly. “We’ll make it out of here and back to the surface, Anders.”

She smiles at him, and he believes her.

***

It seems to take almost no time at all to retrace their footsteps, and it is with spirits lifted that the expedition resumes. Fortune seems to be finally favouring them all; they hadn’t merely stumbled back out into the Deep Roads, but actually managed to emerge close to the entrance to an ancient thaig.

“Holy shit,” Bartrand whistles as they stare out at the ancient ruins. “This is better than I’d expected! This place must have been abandoned for centuries. I’d thought... an abandoned thaig, something old, but... what is this?” 

They set up camp before starting to explore tentatively. There’s something oddly alien about the architecture, the carvings upon the walls strange and unrecognisable from anything any of them have ever seen.

“I don’t get it. Nothing in this thaig makes any sense,” Bartrand remarks to his brother as they move further out into the abandoned halls. “We’re well below the Deep Roads. Whatever dwarves lived here, they came long before the First Blight. But where are the statues of Paragons? I don’t recognise these markings on the walls or anything in the rubble.”

“Who knows how old these ruins are?” shrugs Hawke as she glances up at the lofty vaulted ceiling. “Maybe your people were different back then.”

Bartrand shakes his head slowly. “I know enough about our history to know we haven’t changed much. Dwarves have been mired in tradition for many ages. These dwarves may have been unique. If so, I hope they kept their valuables close at hand.” He barks mirthless laughter.

“Spread out, look around!” he calls out to the hired hands. “There must be treasure here somewhere.”

Hawke leads their own small group off down a mostly-intact carved stone staircase between two buildings, the arcane markings incised deeply into the ancient stone giving no clue as to their original purpose. Anders glances up at the ancient lanterns that still glow with the strange red-tinged light that is everywhere in the Deep Roads and wonders how they are powered still after so long. He’s barely paying attention as Hawke and Varric discuss the thaig in hushed voices, though his ears prick up as Varric confides he was born on the surface - unlike Bartrand, it seems, who was born in Orzammar. That explains a great deal about the beardless dwarf that had been puzzling Anders.

“Hmm, whatever’s through there seems mostly still intact,” muses Varric as he gestures towards an archway. “Think we’ll find anything?” 

“Bartrand is far more enthralled with this place than you are,” jokes Hawke. “You wouldn’t even be down here if there weren’t likely to be a profit in it, would you?”

“Guilty as charged,,” replies Varric with a shrug. “I just hope this is going to be worth it.” 

They head down flight after flight of steps, moving deeper into the thaig. Anders is distracted by an inscription on a stone pillar that looks almost like something he saw once in a book back in Kinloch. He crouches down, tracing over the alien and yet somehow almost hauntingly-familiar letters, for once able to forget the thousands of feet of rock over their heads and the darkness lurking just beyond the red glow of the perpetually-burning lamps.

“Hey, what’s that down there?” says Hawke suddenly, gesturing towards a flight of stairs leading up from the hall they’re standing in, into a larger cavern. The entrance is blocked by two immense iron-bound doors; one stands slightly ajar.

Anders gets to his feet, dusting off his knees with a wince as his back protests. His right knee gives a twinge of warning and he braces himself for a moment against the stone pillar; the joint has never been entirely right since his escape from the Circle.

“Mage?” rumbles the elf quietly.

“I’m fine,” says Anders absently as he straightens and turns to follow Hawke and Varric, leaning on his staff for support.

It doesn’t occur to him to wonder at the elf’s quiet show of concern for him.

***

They stand around the stone altar atop the dais and stare down at the curious idol.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” begins Varric in a low voice.

“Is that...” begins Hawke slowly.

“Lyrium,” Anders blurts out as he stares at it. “It’s... it’s pure lyrium!” He can’t take his eyes off it; the idol practically _sings_ to him. He can only ever remember being in such close proximity to so much lyrium in one place like this perhaps once before in his life - at his Harrowing. He stares at the metal and remembers the feeling of falling into the Fade. He cannot repress a shudder even as he feels himself drawn to the idol.

“Anders?”

He stares at Fenris, but the expression of worry in the elf’s green eyes doesn’t fully register; he’s too distracted by the siren call of the lyrium which draws his eyes once more.

There’s something wrong about this - about all of this. The lyrium’s song feels somehow _wrong_ and unclean; even as he feels drawn to it, something tells him to keep back, not to touch. _Red lyrium._ He knows, as his fingers brush the cool metal in spite of the voice inside telling him to keep back, not to touch - a voice that sounds a little like Karl, perhaps. The lyrium idol seems almost to thrum with a disquieting energy, almost _alive_. Malevolent.

“Anders?” asks Hawke.

“Definitely magic,” he answers quietly. “Not the good kind either.”

“Doesn’t look like any kind of lyrium I’ve ever seen,” remarks Varric with a frown.

“What have you found?” calls Bartrand from the bottom of the stairs, distracting them from contemplation of the metal idol.

“Come and see this, Bartrand!” Varric calls back. “An idol made out of pure lyrium, I think. Could be worth a fortune,” he adds, as his brother climbs the stairs to the dais. Hawke picks up the idol and tosses it to the elder Tethras brother who hefts it thoughtfully and lets out a low whistle as he stares at it. 

“You could be right. Excellent find,” Bartrand says slowly as he turns and heads back down the stairs.

“Not bad,” remarks Varric. “Let’s take a look around, see what else we can find.”

A loud scraping sound suddenly draws their attention back to the immense door as it swings closed behind Bartrand. They turn and race back down the stairs towards it; Anders sprints frantically towards the door, one hand outstretched, but the heavy metal clangs shut despite his best efforts. He’s simply not strong enough to hold it alone, and Fenris is at his side a heartbeat too late.

“Bartrand! The door!” shouts Varric. “It’s shut behind you!”

They can hear Bartrand’s quiet chuckle, muffled by the thick door. “You always did notice everything, Varric,” comes his reply.

“Are you joking?” exclaims Varric in disbelief. “You’re going to screw over your own brother for a lousy _idol_??”

“Not just the idol,” replies Bartrand. “The location of this thaig alone is worth a fortune - and I’m not splitting that three ways. Sorry... _brother_.”

“Bartrand?” exclaims Varric, then louder, “ _Bartrand!!_ ”

Anders stares at the closed door, ashen-faced. They’re locked in. Trapped. He presses a hand against the cold metal door and feels a wave of panic sweep over him. He swallows hard, and fights hard against the urge to scream.

***

Fenris watches as the mage bows his head for a moment then turns away, white-faced, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Anders?” said Hawke in a low, worried voice; Anders shakes his head at her, tight-lipped, his eyes a little too wide. He moves away, and Hawke makes to follow but Fenris checks her.

“Hawke. Leave him,” he says in a low voice.

“What? Fenris, I’m not -” she begins hotly. He steps into her path and leans in close, somehow managing to loom even though they are of a height, his eyes level with his.

“He spent a year locked up, Hawke. Leave him. Give him space,” he hisses softly, one hand upon her shoulder to halt her.

Perhaps it is something in his tone of voice - empathy bleeding through his words, maybe - or perhaps it is the touch from him, of all people. But Hawke stops and returns his stare.

“Fenris, he needs a friend,” she says quietly. “You may not care about him but I do, damn it!”

He recoils, bereft of words for a moment, and she pushes past him to follow Anders. He turns and stares after her, finding his voice too late. 

“I _do_ care,” he finally manages, but she doesn’t hear; she has taken Anders’ hands and is talking to him in a low voice as Anders closes his eyes and fights to control his ragged breathing. Hawke leads Anders over to the steps leading up to the dais and gently encourages him to sit, dropping his backpack down to the floor at his feet as he slumps. He hunches over, burying his face in his hands as Fenris can only watch helplessly.

It should be _him_ sitting there upon the step next to Anders, rubbing the mage’s back soothingly. Instead he watches, silent, as Hawke runs her hands gently over the mage’s hunched back and talks to him softly.

“You missed your chance, elf,” says Varric quietly.

“I....” Fenris falls silent for a moment, then glances down at the dwarf. “I am sorry about your brother,” he finally manages.

“You and I both, elf,” replies Varric heavily as he shakes his head then heads towards the mage and Hawke. “You and I both.”


	16. Profanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not just darkspawn and treacherous dwarves that inhabit the Deep Roads....

Anders draws a ragged breath and tries to focus on the feel of the cold stone step beneath him, Hawke’s comforting hand rubbing small circles against his back, the slight scuff of the elf’s foot on the cracked stone floor as he shifts restlessly - anything other than the thought of the miles of rock over head or the heavy metal door that shuts them in, trapping them as prisoners here in this dark, airless place.

No - not dark. This isn’t like his long, lonely months of solitary in that tiny stone cell; it’s better lit, for a start, and he can stand up and walk around. The company is better, too - instead of the visits of an indifferent cat and rather less indifferent templars, he has friends here; Hawke, Varric, Fenris -

He gets to his feet and draws a deeper breath, willing away confused thoughts about the elf along with the wave of panic that has threatened to overwhelm him since the door shut.

“Anders?” says Hawke softly.

“I’m alright,” he replies as he glances back at her and tries to give her a reassuring smile. “Really. Just - just give me a moment here.”

“Take your time, Blondie,” says Varric soothingly. “We aren’t going anywhere - at least, not for the moment.”

“No - no, we _will_ ,” replies Anders firmly as he turns to stare at the dwarf. “We’re going to get out of here. There _has_ to be a way out of here. We’ll find it.”

“Sure we will,” nods Varric encouragingly. “And when we get out, Bartrand’s going to wish he’d never been born, believe me.”

Anders laughs, and to his relief there is less hysteria in his voice. He glances at Hawke, and she looks relieved too that he hasn’t dissolved into a panicked mess. A few months ago, he doesn’t think he would have had the strength to handle this - and she’s part of the reason why he can now. The other major reason is currently shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other behind him.

He deliberately doesn’t look at Fenris. He’s too afraid of seeing pity in the elf’s green eyes - or derision. He’s not sure which would be worse.

“Let’s get moving,” he says. “The sooner we get going, the sooner we can get out of here and back to the surface and the happier we’ll _all_ be.”

He slings his pack back on and picks up his staff. He feels steadier with it in his hand. Not for the first time, he wonders what tree it came from - and just what Sandal did to the stone and the staff. And it does feel like a staff now - there’s a subtle yet distinct thrum of power deep within its core, and he can feel how it amplifies his spells. Fire magic, in particular, he suspects will come easier.

That gives him a sudden idea. He holds out a hand, palm up, and calls up a small tendril of flame that flickers and dances upon his palm.

“Anders, what -” begins Hawke, mistified.

“Hush,” he orders quietly as he studies the flame. If there were no exit to this room then it ought to burn tall and steady, but it flickers and dances in some unseen breeze. “There. See?”

“What am I looking at?” asks Hawke as she steps closer and stares at the flame. Varric and the elf draw in as well.

“The air is moving,” observes the elf in a quiet rumble. “There is another way out.”

Anders shakes the magic from his fingers. “Let’s go find it,” he declares. He spares the elf a brief glance and is disconcerted to see a look of... is that... _approval_ on his face? He blinks, uncertain what to make of that, and decides to think about it later. For now, he wants to get out of here. He’ll puzzle out contrary elves later, when there isn’t several thousand feet of solid rock over his head and likely a long trek until they can put the Deep Roads behind them.

They head off through this... temple? It’s hard to tell, really. The dais the idol was on could have been an altar perhaps, but there is nothing else in these crumbling ruins to hint at what the decrepit and crumbling chamber once might have been.

At the far end of the chamber, picking their way carefully around the remains of a shattered pillar and chunks of stone collapsed from the ceiling they find an arched doorway leading into another chamber, and then another, and another.

It’s not so bad now they’re on the move again. These chambers may be in ruins and long ago abandoned - but they are undeniably _built_ by dwarven hands, and he can fool himself for now that they are not thousands of feet underground. Well, mostly, anyway. The chambers are empty and deserted for the most part, although they do stumble into a couple of groups of darkspawn. But it seems he is steadily growing in proficiency at fighting. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to face a group of darkspawn without a spear of dread lancing through him, but he’s more confident now of his own abilities, and he no longer freezes upon first sight of their Blighted eyes reflecting the light milkily, or the first whiff of the stench of corruption that lingers about them, a nauseating miasma.

As the last darkspawn falls, Hawke calls a halt to catch their breaths, and Anders is grateful of the chance to rest briefly. They have been on the move all day, and he has no idea what time it must be on the surface - but he knows that it must have been several hours now since Bartrand’s betrayal, and a couple of hours before that since they last ate at the camp near the entrance to the thaig.

From the looks on the faces of the others, that realisation has also occurred to them - as has the realisation that their packs are back in the camp, along with all their rations. All they have with them are the light satchels with a few travel rations and water, just enough to keep them going whilst they explore the ruins, but not enough to get them to the surface.

Well, apart from Anders. He has few enough possessions in the world as it is; perhaps it had been paranoia that caused him to bring his pack with him rather than entrust it to the mercenary camp guards. As the others stare at each other with looks of alarm, he inwardly thanks Andraste for that moment of paranoia - and for Lirene’s forethought.

“Maker, we’re going to _starve_ down here,” says Hawke, a look of despair in her eyes.

“No - we’re not!” blurts out Anders as he hastily shrugs his pack off his shoulders. “Look - I have food here!”

They stare in disbelief as he drops his pack to the floor and hastily rummages through it, their expressions changing to surprised relief as he pulls out the packets of dried peas and lentils Lirene had pressed upon him, along with the dried beef jerky and a few other odds and ends. “I have cooking things too -”

“Anders, you’re a marvel!” exclaims Hawke as she flings her arms around him and hugs him fiercely. He blinks, surprised, and then hesitantly puts his arms around her and gently hugs back.

“Nice one, Blondie; between this food and your healing, we might just make it back to the surface in one piece,” says Varric approvingly, patting Anders on the back.

He glances up, unable to help it as he glances to Fenris to see the elf’s reaction. 

The white-haired warrior is regarding him with... is that _respect_ in the elf’s green gaze? 

Fenris nods to him. “I am impressed,” he rumbles quietly. “You had the foresight to bring your own rations, and to keep your pack with you.”

“I don’t have much,” shrugs Anders - as well as he can, with his arms full of Hawke - and gives Fenris a rueful smile. “I didn’t want to leave behind what little I do have.”

“I... understand,” nods Fenris; and Anders can see he speaks the truth. For once, the elf seems in a peaceful mood, not snapping or growling, and Anders feels his heart give a little hopeful jump. Maybe....

He opens his mouth to speak, but suddenly Hawke leans back and cups his face in her hands.

“Anders, you’ve saved us. I could just kiss you!”

And she does. And all Anders can think about is the press of her warm, soft lips against his, the way the softness contrasts with the fierce way she claims his mouth, and all he can do is close his eyes and surrender, his hands upon her waist the only thing grounding him as she deepens the kiss, stealing his breath until he is dizzy.

When she draws back, he opens his eyes dazedly and is only aware of Marian’s bright blue gaze upon him. Whatever he would have said to Fenris has been driven clean out of his head.

***

They press on to put some distance between themselves and the dead darkspawn, and find the walls of stone blocks give way to rough-hewn walls carved out of the very rock. These chambers are lit more dimly, and the light reflects silver off the veins of lyrium weaving through the rock in places. Anders can feel it singing softly in his veins - like Fenris when he lights up, only softer and yet just as deadly, the raw metal poisonous enough to the others but deadly toxic to mages such as himself.

Much as Fenris is, he muses, then shudders. He wills away that thought, even as he moves away from the alluring yet deadly siren call of the silvery metal.

Hawke calls a halt, and they sit down to rest. There’s nothing they can use for firewood here, but Anders is able to call up fire with his magic - enough to cook them all a hearty broth of lentils, peas and some of the dried jerky. He has only his own wooden bowl and chipped earthenware cup, but they all have their own utensils - they gather around and all eat from the pot until they’ve had their fill.

“We should make camp here -” begins Hawke; whatever she was going to say is drowned out by the sound of scraping rocks as several boulders at the far end of the chamber suddenly start to gather themselves together to take a vaguely humanoid form. The rock-creature turns its head to glare at them balefully.

“Oh, this does not look good,” says Varric as they scramble to their feet and he reaches for his crossbow Bianca. More rocks are drawing themselves together to form more of the creatures.

Anders hastily throws up shields over them all as Fenris reaches for his massive sword and Hawke draws her long-bladed fighting knives. Anders fleetingly wonders what use knives and arrows will be against enchanted stone; has no further chance to wonder as Fenris launches himself at the creature in a blaze of light, and then he is kept too busy to wonder further as he is hard-pressed to keep up shields and haste spells upon them all and fight off one of the creatures which seems far too intent on smashing him into mage paste for his own comfort and peace of mind.

Yet one part of his mind cannot help furiously thinking back on everything he had ever read or studied about rock creatures such as these. He is sure he has read of these things before, if only he could remember -

Fenris lashes into one of the creatures at the same time as one of Anders’ lightning bolts hit it, and the creature abruptly shatters and they are all forced to dodge splintered shards of rock as it bursts apart.

“Nice one, Blondie!” calls Varric approvingly. 

“Looks like you and Fenris can work well together after all - when you’re not muttering profanities about each other under your breaths!” teases Hawke breathlessly. Anders merely grins ruefully, and then he snaps his fingers as he suddenly recalls the name of these creatures.

“Profane!” he exclaims. “That’s what these things are! I’ve read about them in -”

“Blondie, watch out!” shouts Varric suddenly, a moment before something fast-moving strikes him in the sternum and he is flung back against the rough-hewn wall hard enough that for a moment, he cannot breathe. He is certain he feels a rib crack as he hit the wall and something jabs him in the stomach; he blinks as he gasps for breath, and realises it was Fenris that shoulder-charged him as the elf grunts in pain. He looks up over Fenris’ shoulder into the dimly-glowing, inhuman eyes of the Profane that would have struck him as it draws back its arm, hefting one of the shards of its destroyed brethren in its fist as it prepares to strike again.

In the split second before the Profane can strike a second time, Anders is aware of three things simultaneously - the blood staining the stone shard, the pain radiating through Fenris’ body as the elf clutches at the gaping wound in his stomach - the wound he has taken for _Anders_ , the stone point that would have killed him instead running the elf through until the point emerged from his back to stab into Anders shallowly - and that neither Fenris nor he will survive if the Profane strikes again.

He drops his staff; it is useless at such close quarters. Pressing himself against Fenris’ back, he calls up mana before he flings his hands forward over the elf’s shoulders and hurls a lightning blast at the Profane at almost point-blank range.

The Profane shatters, but Anders has no time to waste upon triumph; his battle has only just begun, in a very real sense. He flings his arms around Fenris, one around the elf’s chest to support him as Fenris’ legs give way, the other hand splaying across the gory wound as he channels all his mana into healing.

He drops to his knees, then lets himself fall back against the rock wall as his legs splay either side of Fenris, all his attention now focusing inward upon the work of healing and the battle to save Fenris’ life before the elf can bleed out. He is oblivious to the end of the fight against the Profane or Varric and Hawke’s voices; oblivious even to the blood seeping into his clothes from his own wound. It is inconsequential, compared to the one that is killing Fenris. 

The stone shard has ripped apart the elf’s guts, shredding them on its path through his body, lacerating his liver and clipping the bottom of his right lung. Anders is unaware of the tears running down his own face as he desperately weaves magic to stem the bleeding, pull the torn edges together, seamlessly stitch the elf back together - mana for a needle, cells and healing for thread as torn guts are bound back together, healed from the inside out, muscle rewoven, the elf’s very metabolism sped up to accelerate natural healing to a preternatural pace to regenerate that which was destroyed, until even the fragile tissue of skin covering the horrific wound is thickened and smoothed. 

He pours all his magic into Fenris, keeping nothing back for himself, unaware of the frantic, frightened words that tumble from his lips as he pleads with the elf to live, to breathe, to stay with him.

He only returns to awareness of their surroundings when he feels a rough, sword-calloused yet warm hand that tingles with the trace of lyrium press over his own where it still rests against Fenris’ stomach.

“Peace, _amatus_ ; I will not leave you,” murmurs the elf weakly.

 _Amatus_ , he thinks; Tevene. He knows what it means, that’s the Tevene for....

The thought spirals, unfinished, down into blackness; and Anders follows it.


	17. Amatus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An apology is made.

Fenris feels light-headed from blood loss, a dull ache running through him like a dim memory of the agony that punched through him before. He could blame his slip of the tongue upon that, perhaps - except he doesn’t want to excuse it for anything other than what it is - the truth. He still loves Anders. 

But as the mage remains silent, he finds himself struck by doubt. Perhaps he has been wrong. Perhaps whatever fleeting feelings Anders may once have had for him truly _have_ been extinguished - killed off by his attack upon the man, destroyed by his own rage.

He has erred. Anders’ silence is answer enough.

“Maker’s balls, elf, I was sure you and Blondie were both dead for sure!” exclaims Varric as he and Hawke crouch down either side of him; Hawke reaches behind him to touch Anders’ shoulder.

“Anders? Maker - he’s out cold!” exclaims Hawke. And just like that, all Fenris’ doubts are replaced with concern and worry for the mage. 

He sits up and leans away from Anders; Varric’s hand upon his shoulder steadies him as a sudden wave of dizziness sweeps over him at the sudden movement.

“Easy there, elf; Blondie’s healed you up but that’s still a lot of your blood you’re sitting in,” warns Varric.

“Not all of it’s his,” says Hawke darkly. Fenris turns and stares aghast; there is blood seeping through Anders’ clothes, and the mage’s face is white.

Varric helps him to his feet; Fenris can feel his strength returning slowly, but the dizziness makes him glad of the dwarf’s steadying hand before he can step away.

“Varric, a hand? I want to get him out of this mess so I can see where he’s bleeding,” asks Hawke. Fenris watches, feeling useless as they gently lift Anders up and away from the pool of blood - _their_ blood, he realises; his and Anders’. He moves over to Anders’ abandoned pack and tugs out the mage’s bedroll, spreading it out for them to lay the unconscious man down before hunting through for bandages and a healing kit.

Hawke and Varric lay Anders down gently, and then Hawke peels open Anders’ tattered coat with a grim expression as she stares at the blood-soaked thin grey rags beneath. Carefully she peels back the tattered and patched linen and then exhales in a sigh of relief; the wound, though messy, doesn’t look too bad.

Fenris drops to his knees next to the unconscious mage as Hawke reaches for the healing kit; unable to stop himself, he reaches for the hem of the ragged shirt.

“Fenris, what are you -” Hawke breaks off as Fenris slowly pushes the fabric up, and then quietly swears to himself as he sees the mage’s ribs standing out sharply against the scarred pale white flesh. 

“Oh no. Oh Anders,” Hawke murmurs; Varric cranes his neck to look and then he groans.

“Aw, Blondie,” he sighs.

Fenris reaches for the neck of the shirt and slowly unlaces it then gently brushes it open before running his fingers lightly over the sharp collar bones, down across the prominent ribs over scarred flesh - scars that he remembers so well from long nights of tending them - his fingers finding new scars here and there overlaying the old, and he can only wonder at what Anders has gone through since Fenris’ own actions drove the mage away.

His fingers halt just above the shallow yet messy wound, and he can see at once what has happened - the shard of rock that was rammed through his own body also tore into Anders’ body, a couple of inches below his ribs. Thin and half-starved as Anders is, he has little enough blood in him already - the loss and shock from the wound and the expenditure of his magic to save the elf has driven the mage deep into unconsciousness.

Did he even hear Fenris’ breathily-whispered _amatus_? He has no way of knowing.

“We need to get his coat off; that wound needs dressing,” remarks Hawke. “Fenris, can you lift him up?”

Between the three of them, they manage to strip the coat and blood-soaked shirt from the unconscious man, and then Fenris supports him upright as Hawke carefully dresses the wound. Anders’ shirt is fit for nothing more than rags, but Varric digs out the spare shirt from Anders’ pack. It, too, is worn thin and much patched and darned - but it is clean, at least. 

Anders doesn’t stir - not even so much as a flicker of his eyelids - as they clean and dress the wound then Hawke tugs on the new shirt. It is only after, when Fenris is gently cradling him in his arms as Hawke attempts to coax a healing potion into him, that he finally opens his eyes dazedly. He stares up at Fenris in confusion, but he drinks the healing potion Hawke holds to his lips before his eyes close and he sinks down into a deep sleep.

It is with reluctance that Fenris finally lays Anders down upon the bedroll to sleep. He tucks the thin blanket from Anders’ pack around the sleeping mage then straightens, to find Hawke eyeing him almost accusingly.

“Fenris, what gives?” she demands. “You’ve done nothing but snipe at Anders this whole trip, almost going out of your way to make him miserable - and now, what? Suddenly you can’t keep your hands off him? You seriously expect me to believe you’ve finally come to your senses _now_ , of all times?”

Fenris looks away, unable to face her piercing blue gaze as she glares at him.

“Your accusations are not without merit,” he says quietly. “I was... hurt by the way he reacted to me when we finally found him, though he had every right to be angry at me and I should have expected no less for what I did. But I let my pride get the better of me. I lashed out in turn, and I... I caused more hurt to him.”

He glances to Varric. “You saw it more clearly than I, Varric. I... still have feelings for him.”

Varric snorts. “Call it what it is, elf - you still love him; a blind nug could see that.”

“Anders evidently didn’t,” replies Hawke acerbically. “Did it ever occur to you to maybe just _tell_ him, instead of continually hurting him?”

“I did not think he still had feelings for me,” confesses Fenris.

Varric groans and runs a hand over his face. “Broody, did it ever occur to you that maybe the reason he was so upset and hurt by everything you said was _because_ he still has feelings for you?” he points out.

Fenris can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he hunches in upon himself, ears drooping. “It... did not,” he admits unhappily.

Hawke sits back and frowns at him. “So what now?” she asks. 

“I... do not know,” he shrugs. “I am not used to - to affairs of the heart. In Tevinter, slaves are not permitted to form attachments. Affection for another slave can be used to... harm. If one slave runs away, their lover would be the one punished. We did not dare grow attached to one another for fear of it being used against us.”

“Perhaps you should have tried listening to what Anders tried to tell you about life in the Circle, instead of fighting with him about it,” says Hawke darkly. “You might find that your experiences and his aren’t so different.” She and Varric exchange glances, and Fenris has the distinct impression that there is something he has missed here; something shared between the two rogues that he has not been privy to. Something involving Anders.

Fenris frowns and looks down at Anders’ pale face. “Perhaps,” he allows quietly.

“Fenris, when you first found Anders - what did you think?” asked Hawke.

“That he was an escaped slave,” shrugs Fenris. “He bore the signs of manacles about his wrists and ankles, and he had been whipped - as slaves are - and mistreated. What else was I to think?”

“And now? What do you think of the way he was treated - by templars?” she presses.

“That... perhaps I was wrong,” he admits tersely. “Hawke, why must you persist in badgering me? I concede that I was wrong - about this, and many other things concerning Anders. What would you have me do?”

“Do? How about stop hurting him every time he opens his mouth, for a start?” she demands. “For someone who claims to care for him, you do a damned poor job of showing it!”

He glares at her. “I _love_ him!” he hisses.

“Then damned well start acting like it!” she hisses back.

“Now, kids, take it easy,” says Varric placatingly as he lifts his hands. “Let’s not fight over Blondie, least of all when he’s in no condition to have a say in the matter and hurt.” He glances at Fenris, who shrugs and sits back. Varric turns to Hawke. “Hawke?”

“Fine,” she shrugs in turn. “But this isn’t over, Fenris. I’m not going to stand by and watch you hurt him further.”

“Let’s save all this until we’re out of here and back on the surface, Hawke,” suggests Varric. “In the meantime, let’s all try and get some rest.”

“I shall take first watch,” offers Fenris. He knows that he feels too restless to sleep yet, even though he is weary, and he still feels a hollow, aching sensation deep in his guts. He is healed however - thanks to the man lying unconscious beside him.

No further harm will come to Anders, he tells himself. He will keep watch. 

 

***

He awakens slowly to the feel of arms around him, a warm body pressed up against his back, a face nuzzled into his hair. Drowsy, not fully all the way awake, he smiles sleepily at the familiar feeling of being held. _Safe_ , he thinks, and turns his face slightly to snuggle into -

_Wait._ Instead of the softness of a pillow, his cheek brushes feathers that smell of damp and blood. His eyes snap open to stare around himself, and in an instant he tenses with alarm.

The arm around his waist tightens, and as he glances down and sees tawny skin lined in lyrium silver he realises it is Fenris whose face is buried in his hair at the nape of his neck - Fenris who is awakening, holding him tighter, closer, and he cannot check the breathless whimper that escapes his lips.

“Peace, mage,” rumbles Fenris softly, his breath ghosting over Anders’ ear, drawing a shiver from the apostate. “I will not harm you.”

Anders swallows, his mouth dry with fear. “Past events beg to differ,” he manages to reply; he is inwardly impressed his voice is steady.

Fenris’ sigh is warm against his skin. “For which I am truly sorry.”

“Are you?” Anders’ tone is sharp as he tries to pull away from the elf. “Damn it, let me go!”

Fenris releases him, and he sits up, turning to glare down at the warrior; Fenris sits up slowly and shifts away, putting space between them, hunching over slightly as he stares up at Anders through the tousled, sleep-mussed white hair.

“I did not mean to alarm you,” the elf says quietly.

“You did far worse than alarm me!” hisses Anders. “You -”

“You saved my life,” interrupts Fenris. “I... thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Anders says sharply, biting off the words. He turns to rise then grits his teeth as the movement pulls at the wound painfully. He clutches at the bandages then glances down, only just registering that someone has dressed his wound and he is wearing his sole clean shirt. He glances back at Fenris.

“You were injured. You healed me but neglected your own wound,” shrugs Fenris. “Hawke dressed your wound. You do not remember her giving you the healing potion?”

He frowns, thinking back. He has a hazy memory of Fenris’ arms about him, the taste of elfroot upon his tongue -

_No, wait._ His frown deepens. He remembers -

His own arms around Fenris. Pain in his stomach, overwhelming weariness, his mana drained. Fenris’ voice....

“ _Amatus_ ,” says Anders slowly as he looks up to find Fenris’ green gaze intent upon him. “You called me _amatus_.”

“I did,” replies Fenris. His face is shadowed behind the curtain of snow-white hair but his eyes are luminous, reflecting back the dim light. _Like wolf’s eyes_ , he thinks. The thought is not a comforting one.

“It means -”

“I know what it means,” Anders interrupts him. “‘Beloved’. Did you think I wouldn’t understand? What makes you think you have the right to call me that, after everything you’ve done?”

“Mage... Anders, I-”

“Stop it!” hisses Anders. “You tried to kill me, or had you forgotten? Your hand was around my heart! You hurt me, and you keep on hurting me! You said you would have let me die if you had known what I was - and now you dare call me ‘beloved’??” His voice is rising, incredulous; he cannot believe this.

There is a cough, as Varric clears his throat; Anders nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Now, boys, easy there. Let’s all calm down now,” says the dwarf peaceably.

“Calm down? Varric, he’s done nothing but snipe at me and pick fights ever since we set foot in these damned tunnels. I’ve not heard one word of apology from him -”

“Has it occurred to you that maybe he’s trying? Perhaps you should give him a chance,” shrugs Varric. “It’s a long way to the surface and we only have each other down here to rely on. Broody’s trying to make amends. How about you meet him halfway?”

“Halfway??” exclaims Anders. “Varric, he -”

“I apologise,” interjects Fenris. 

“What?” Anders blinks at him. The elf shrugs, his ears drooping.

“I apologise,” he repeats. “I am sorry. I have treated you shamefully, and I should not have done. I would make amends, if I can.”

“How?” demands Anders. “You _tried to kill me!!_ ”

The elf flinches, and he regards Anders with wide, unhappy eyes. _Like a kicked puppy,_ Anders thinks, and feels a stab of unexpected guilt. It only serves to make him angrier.

“No!” he declares as he gets to his feet. “No, you don’t get to look at me that way, you - stop it!”

Hawke stirs, sitting up as she looks around. “Anders? What’s all the shouting about?” She frowns. “Should you be up yet? How do you feel?”

“Fine,” he lies, as he turns away. “I’m fine, Hawke. Go back to sleep; I’ll be OK.”

“Anders...” murmurs Fenris.

“Leave me be, Fenris,” he growls as he grabs his bedroll and drags it over beside Hawke. He stretches out upon it with his folded coat for a pillow, and turns his back to the elf.

He closes his eyes, but sleep is elusive. He is all too aware of the elf’s eyes upon him.


	18. "Why?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not easy accepting one's mistakes, but someone has to make the first move.

The worst of it is that he doesn’t hate Fenris at all, he reflects the next morning - or at least, he presumes it’s morning. It could be the middle of the night, for all they know. He’s lost all sense of time; he has no idea even of the date any more.

No, he doesn’t hate Fenris, and that’s what makes all of this all the more painful. He’d _dreamed_ of hearing an endearment from Fenris’ lips; maybe if those slavers hadn’t picked right _then_ to interrupt, he might have heard one before it all went to the Void.

Would it have changed what happened after? He suspects not.

He knows he was being unfair. The elf _did_ apologise - not once, but twice, in the space of only a few minutes; and what did Anders do?

He sighs to himself, aware of Hawke’s sudden keen glance as she turns her head to stare at him; but he can’t bring himself to even begin to attempt to explain any of the confused and unhappy thoughts running through his head.

She’s been a little distant towards him ever since they woke earlier to eat the reheated leftovers from the previous evening. How on earth the pot didn’t get knocked over and spilled during the fight with the Profane, he has no idea - but they were all glad of it.

Well, apart from the moment when they all tried to insist they weren’t really hungry and he should eat it all, which was -

He can feel his cheeks grow warm with remembered embarrassment and humiliation at the memory. Hawke had been stubborn, but so had he. In the end, they’d all shared the food equally before he’d carefully cleaned the pot with water from conjured ice, heated with a touch of fire magic. 

(That’s one good thing - as long as he has mana to conjure ice from the very moisture in the air, they’re not going to die of thirst at least - and there are always underground rivers and lakes enough to keep the air damp enough to pull water from.)

She’s been silent since then; somehow it seems both he _and_ Fenris have fallen out of her good books. He finds the silence hard to take and after a while, he drops back a little to walk with Varric. The dwarf seems willing to indulge his need to fill the silence without asking reasons why; they pass the time by thinking up different ways to punish Bartrand for his betrayal.

“Boiling in oil,” Anders suggests. Varric shakes his head.

“Too prosaic. Trapped in a cave with hungry bears, right at the spring thaw.”

“That lets him off too easy,” Anders disagrees. He ponders for a while; up ahead, Fenris prowls on point. Anders watches as the elf pauses near a crack in the rock, cocking his head to listen with those long elf ears before he glances back to shake his head before carrying on. 

He feels Varric nudge him with an elbow in silent prompt. “Dipped in molten gold and left as a statue in the Viscount's Keep,” Anders suggests.

“Ooh. That's poetic!” Varric replies appreciatively.

“What are you two talking about?” calls back Hawke a little testily.

“What to do to Bartrand when I find him,” replies Varric.

“Any suggestions?” Anders adds.

“How about this one - let’s get out of here alive, _then_ worry about what to do to Bartrand,” she replies.

“Ooh, touchy,” murmurs Varric _sotto voce_ ; Anders hums agreement. His eyes are still on the elf however. 

“Say,” the dwarf continues, “those rock things back there....”

“The Profane?” supplies Anders.

“Yeah, those are the ones,” he nods. “How did you know what they were? I thought you Circle mage types didn’t get out and about into the big wide world much?”

“We don’t,” replies Anders with a shrug. “But I’ve got a good memory for almost everything I’ve ever read, and I remembered reading something about them once. I’m surprised you didn’t know about them yourself - the other name for them is rock wraiths. Legend has it that they were once dwarves - or the spirits of them, at any rate - that have wandered the Deep Roads so long that they’ve forgotten what they once were.”

“The rock wraiths are supposed to be dwarven legends,” Varric replies. “They’re myths!”

“That ‘myth’ back there very nearly killed Fenris,” Anders points out.

“Good job you were there to put him back together, huh, Blondie? Though it looked to me like Broody was saving your life first.” Varric looks up at him to gauge his reaction, his voice low.

“What’s your point, Varric?” Anders asks, though his voice is equally quiet.

“Only this - that the elf threw himself in harm’s way to save your life - and you seemed particularly distraught about it. Or do your eyes usually water when you’re healing someone, Blondie?”

He can feel his cheeks growing hot again.

“Varric -” he begins; the dwarf holds a hand up placatingly.

“Easy, Blondie. All I’m saying is, maybe give the elf a chance. It ever occur to you that maybe you’re not the only one hurting over what he did?”

They walk in silence for a while, until Anders can’t stand it any longer.

“He - he called me _amatus_ ,” he finally murmurs.

“I don’t speak Tevene, Blondie. Is that a bad thing, that he called you that?”

It’s Anders’ turn to be silent for a while. Varric lets the silence stretch out, until finally Anders is forced to answer just to drown it out.

“No,” he admits in a small voice. He can’t help the wistful tone in his voice.

The silence stretches between them until finally the dwarf takes pity on him.

“Talk to him, Blondie. Listen to what he’s trying to say, instead of what you _think_ he’s trying to say.”

“I’ll... I’ll try,” Anders finally manages.

“Atta boy, Blondie.” Varric pats him on the back.

***

Fenris is aware of Anders dropping back to talk with Varric; much as he is aware of Hawke’s sharp glare and the terse silence she treats Anders to. Evidently she didn’t appreciate their waking her during the night, and now Anders is in disgrace with her almost as much as _he_ is.

Part of him feels almost vindictively pleased that the mage is on the receiving end of her ire now instead of just him - but it is a small part; he feels more anger towards _her_ , for the way she is treating Anders now, snubbing him. And - yes, for the way she dared to kiss him. 

He had felt irrationally jealous as he was forced to stand there and say nothing as she’d claimed Anders’ lips and the mage had so easily given in to her, closing his eyes and surrendering. He cannot get the sight out of his mind - the way Anders’ eyes had flown wide at first, then darkened before fluttering closed as the mage leaned in, tilting his head a little as she stole his breath.

The sight of him afterwards, eyes drifting only half-open as he gasped for breath, a tinge of pink creeping across his face. Flushed, panting, wanting more.

Fenris’ imagination calls up an image of Anders like that for _him_. On his knees, perhaps, golden tresses loose and tumbling about his face, lips flushed and a little swollen as those honey-brown eyes drift slowly open to stare up at Fenris. He can picture himself leaning forward, one hand rising to fist in that silky golden hair, forcing the mage’s head back as he bends to kiss and lightly bite that slender white throat. Would Anders moan softly, perhaps? A breathy little groan, as Fenris slowly pushes him onto his back, pinning those slender wrists to the ground as Fenris rolls his hips against Anders’ groin, eliciting another moan from the mage -

He hears Hawke’s voice, waspishly sharp behind him as she speaks to Anders and Varric, and he suddenly recalls where he is and feels his face flush dark with sudden shame that he is thinking such things after what Anders said to him. The mage has every right to be angry with him - how much angrier would he be if he knew the thoughts running through Fenris’ head right now?

He pauses by another crack in the rock and peers within; he feels no stir of air upon his heated cheeks however, and the crack would be too narrow for any of them to pass. He moves on.

He remembers waking slowly to the sound of Anders’ voice as the mage healed him; to the way his voice cracked as he begged the elf to stay with him. If ever he’d doubted Anders harboured any feelings for him, then hearing the desperation in the mage’s voice had dispelled them. Somewhere deep inside, Anders still cares; of that he is certain. Varric has already seen it; the dwarf is correct. It is not merely his wishful thinking.

He cannot give up. Anders is rightfully angry - but Fenris cannot give up. He cannot get thoughts of the mage out of his head. There has to be some way to show him that he stands by his apology - that he _is_ truly sorry and would do anything to make amends.

They emerge into a cavern, the rough-hewn walls of the passageway giving way to the more natural surface of rock walls, the remains of a shattered door littering the ground. Fenris picks his way past them carefully as he glances around. Tall rough-hewn pillars of stone, wreathed in what appears to be a strange form of lyrium that glows a baleful red, support the high vault of the ceiling, the lyrium bathing the cave in the nightmarish hue of blood.

Hawke glances around as she steps clear of the rubble. “What is this place?” she asks.

“This is the vault,” replies Varric as he and Anders come to join them. “The dwarves would have brought their -”

The dwarf breaks off, his words interrupted by the scrape of stone, another rock wraith - what Anders calls “Profane” - forming together, dark energies holding the rock together in a twisted parody of what might have been something mortal once. This one is far larger than the others.

“Be on your guard!” Fenris calls as he readies his blade; he feels energy lightly dance across his skin as it tightens with the familiar sensation of a shield spell as the mage casts barriers over them all. Then he lets his brands light with the familiar burn as he shifts partway into the Fade and leaps towards the rock wraith.

Other rock wraiths are forming around them, but Fenris concentrates on the first and largest. From somewhere behind him, he hears Anders’ voice a moment before ice fans out to encase the rock wraith’s feet, pinning it in place before Fenris lays into it with his sword.

He cannot spare a glance to see how the others fare; the ancient rock wraith claims all his attention though he is aware of their voices - the mage’s in particular; he takes heart as Anders swears then yells insults at the other rock wraiths. If the mage is shouting imprecations about the inhuman creatures’ unlikely parentage then he must be faring well, if terrified. Fenris can only feel admiration for the way Anders is handling himself in these fights; for one who has spent his life imprisoned, the mage has shown remarkable aptitude for keeping his skin intact in battle.

The rock wraith manages to get past his guard and he swears as it clips his arm, gashing it. Perhaps he should pay more attention to keeping his _own_ skin intact.

He strikes a killing blow and the monstrous creature falls apart to the ground. He turns to stare at the others, but Anders gestures behind him, his eyes wide. “Fenris, look out!”

He rolls aside just in time, avoiding the creature’s blow as it reforms again. “ _Venhedis!_ ” he swears, and readies his blade.

Twice more they smash the ancient rock wraith apart, only for it to reform itself again - though more slowly each time. They are tiring, the long hard battle steadily taking its toll upon them all. They throw everything they have into one last attack.

“Stand clear!” Anders yells, a note of desperation in his voice; they back away as the creature turns to lower threateningly, one massive stone foot taking a step towards the mage as he draws upon his magic. He flings one hand forward, wreathed in fire, then gestures up with both hands as flaming energies coalesce around him and then pulse as he releases the spell, falling to his knees as he unleashes a firestorm upon the rock wraith, fireballs raining down upon the creature.

Fenris cannot spare a moment to glance towards the exhausted mage; he lights all his brands full in a blaze of light and pain as he flings himself towards the rock wraith one last time. His blade strikes simultaneously with one of Varric’s explosive crossbow bolts; the resulting explosion hurls them all back off their feet.

The silence that follows is broken only by the sounds of pebbles and small rocks pattering to the ground all around them; and then Anders’ voice weakly calling, “Does anyone need healing?”

Hawke answers with a low groan as she gets to her feet; she heads towards the mage, who is slowly pushing himself up onto his knees. Fenris reaches him first and gently helps him up; Anders gives him a bewildered look but accepts the help. The mage seems dazed after exerting himself to cast the firestorm.

Varric stomps over, shaking his head as he glances towards the remains of the rock wraith. “These things aren’t even supposed to be real,” he mutters.

“Looked pretty real to me,” replies Hawke. She darts Fenris an odd glance as he remains at Anders’ side, supporting him with one hand around the mage’s slender waist, the other under Anders’ elbow as the mage stumbles slightly. 

Fenris gives her a challenging look, not relinquishing his hold on the mage. She shakes her head then walks over to toe the fallen rubble.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” replies Varric as he moves past the remains of the rock wraith towards something at the back of the cave. “Look at what it was guarding!”

“Let’s see if there’s something that can help us get out of here,” replies Hawke as she follows Varric.

“Fenris?” Anders asks dazedly.

“Peace,” the elf answers quietly. “You exhausted yourself against the rock wraith. Let me help you.”

“For once, I’m not going to argue,” Anders replies tiredly. “Never cast anything that... destructive before. Took more out of me than I thought.” He stumbles; Fenris takes his weight easily, steadying him.

“Easy; I have you,” murmurs Fenris as they make their way slowly after the others.

“Why?” asks Anders wearily, a plaintive note creeping into his voice.

“Because you are too tired to stand unaided,” replies Fenris. “And... because I want to help you.”

“No... not this... I mean, why would you have let me die?” Anders goes on. He lifts exhausted eyes to stare at Fenris, and the elf halts at the look of deep pain he sees there which has nothing to do with Anders’ state of exhaustion.

“Because I was a fool, and afraid,” replies Fenris after a moment. “Because I did not yet know you.”

“That Profane should have killed me,” says Anders softly. “But you took the blow that was meant for me.”

“Yes,” nods Fenris. He stares back into Anders’ soft brown eyes as they slowly fill with tears, and he cannot help himself. He lifts a hand to cup Anders’ cheek; and Anders does not pull away.

“I could not let you die,” says Fenris gently. A single tear rolls down Anders’ cheek; Fenris wipes it away with his thumb, and smiles sadly at Anders. “I have been a fool. I am sorry.”

“Fenris -” begins Anders.

“Are you guys coming?” calls Hawke impatiently from somewhere ahead.

Fenris gazes at Anders. He wants to kiss him; Void take him, he wants it so badly.

Instead they follow the sound of Hawke’s voice.


	19. "I am yours."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one you've all been waiting for. :-)

Anders is exhausted; he is glad of Fenris’ arm about his waist, his quiet strength that keeps Anders on his feet when he stumbles on the rubble created by their destruction of the ancient rock wraith.

He rubs tiredly at his damp cheeks, scrubbing away the traces of tears, uncaring of the dirt that smears across his nose. They’re all dirty, dusty; he thinks with brief longing of hot water and soap and sighs softly.

“Mage?” asks Fenris softly; Anders shakes his head absently. 

“Just tired,” he murmurs back.

“I will tell Hawke you need to rest,” says Fenris; Anders shakes his head again. 

“No, I’ll be fine,” he demurs. “The others sound as though they’ve found something.”

The _something_ turns out to be several treasure chests guarded by a demon.

Anders feels a cold chill that sinks into him; dread curling in his stomach as he stares at it. He has faced a demon only once before; at his Harrowing. 

He can feel Fenris tensing beside him, a low growl escaping the elf’s lips as he reaches for his blade; oblivious, Hawke is talking to the horrible thing. It’s a hunger demon; even without hearing its words, he knows that much about the creature.

“Don’t trust it!” he blurts out as the demon makes its offer. “It’s a demon - you mustn’t trust it!”

The demon turns its head to stare at him with its inhuman gaze.

“Little mage,” it says in that voice that sounds like a distant echo over the grating of rock; it sets Anders’ teeth on edge. “So small, so frightened. So weak. Such delectable fear, and... ohhhh, such a rich vein of life; a Spirit Healer? How delicious! Come closer, little mage; let me taste it, devour it....”

He stares up at the creature and lets out a small gasp as he feels it somehow - touching his very soul with a gaze, draining the very life from him as it siphons his thoughts, feelings, the fear and dread in his heart. He feels himself take an unwilling step forward, stumbling, half in a daze.

He is already so exhausted. He sways....

“No!” snarls Fenris, wrenching Anders back behind himself and snapping the mage out of his daze. “You shall not have him, demon!”

“Too damned right it won’t, Anders,” replies Hawke, sparing him a brief glance before she turns her gaze back on the demon. “No deal.”

“Such a shame,” sighs the demon; and with a grating and rumbling of rock, several Profane draw themselves together and advance.

“Oh Maker,” Anders murmurs to himself as he wearily lifts his hands to cast once more. He is unutterably exhausted and his mana is almost tapped out. He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to stay on his feet, but they have no choice.

He spins his staff, channelling fire once more as the first of the Profane lifts its fists to crush him.

***

The fight is long and hard, and Anders has no more mana left by its end - even with the vial of lyrium Hawke manages to throw to him at one point. He is reeling, punch-drunk from exhaustion, in no fit state to heal even a bruise without tapping into his own life energy; the help of the healing spirits that are drawn to him through the Fade and his own innate nature as a Spirit Healer only go so far and he’s at his limits. He has no strength to resist as Fenris firmly pushes him down to sit upon a fallen chunk of stone; it takes him a moment to realise it is the head of a Profane and then he giggles helplessly for a moment.

Varric and Hawke exchange glances.

“Blondie? You OK there?” asks Varric cautiously.

“He has exhausted himself,” replies Fenris. “He needs rest. As do we all.”

“You’re hurt,” Anders manages as his giggles tail off, his eyes focusing on the cut down Fenris’ arm. “I need to -”

“You need to rest,” Fenris repeats firmly. “You are in no fit state to heal anyone.”

“But -”

“Fenris is right, Anders,” says Hawke with a brief glance to the elf. “There’s a healing kit in your pack; we’ll make do with that.” She crouches down and starts to root through his pack.

“There should be a few healing potions in there,” replies Anders, slumping slightly as he gives up trying to resist against Fenris. The elf is right; he is only remaining upright by sheer effort of will, and if they don’t stop to rest soon then he might just fall asleep where he sits.

“Hey, Hawke?” calls Varric as he glances up from a chest he has managed to unlock with his lockpicks. “I think you should come see this.”

She glances over, then straightens as Fenris moves to take her place and sort through Anders’ healing supplies. Anders remains where he is, for the moment unneeded.

“Well, well, well,” Hawke says slowly; Anders finds himself jerking awake. His eyes had closed by themselves for a moment and he realises he’d drifted off into a light doze. As he glances up, bleary-eyed, Hawke is looking around at the chests with a very self-satisfied expression.

“There must be a fortune here,” observes Varric as he glances round at the chests he’s been opening as Anders has been dozing.

“And we’ll be rich once we get it back to the surface,” replies Hawke.

“The surface?” Anders echoes.

"That demon was telling the truth,” nods Hawke. “There was a key that unlocked that door - and we’re right near where the caravan was camped just before Sandal took us on that little detour. We’ll be home and rich in no time!”

“Can we rest first?” Anders asks plaintively. 

Hawke’s eyes soften as she glances at him. “Of course,” she replies. “I think we all need to eat and then get some rest before we start fetching this lot up to the surface.” She glances around at the chests filled with jewels and gold. “Looks like this expedition was a success after all.”

“Oh.... oh good,” Anders sighs. He closes his eyes and feels himself fall, but Fenris is there.

He is safe.

***

Fenris holds Anders close and gently brushes loose strands of hair away from his sleeping face as he gazes down upon him. There are dark circles bruising the flesh beneath his eyes, and even in sleep the mage looks exhausted.

_His_ mage. He has come so close to losing Anders, but he vows to himself that he won’t take that risk ever again. He has hurt him; he drove him away, and Anders might have died without ever knowing how Fenris feels about him.

He swears that when (not if; _when_ ) they reach the surface, he will take Anders back to his home. _Their_ home. He will tell him all the things he should have said. And he will _show_ Anders how much he has longed for him.

No - he will not wait. When Anders awakens, he will tell him. He will say those words: _I love you._ He will kiss Anders. He will -

A movement draws his gaze away from Anders’ sleeping face; Varric is watching him.

“You got it pretty bad, Elf,” the dwarf says quietly.

“Perhaps you are right,” replies Fenris. He keeps his voice low; though he is longing - even impatient - to see those soft, honey-brown eyes open slowly, to look on him dreamily, to finally kiss Anders as he should have done before; still, Anders needs rest and he will not disturb him now.

“Took you long enough to come to your senses,” Varric goes on. “So, from the way you two were so close just before that demon, should I take it that the beautiful blond apostate and the handsome elven warrior have resolved their difficulties and there might just be a happily ever after?”

“This is not one of your stories, Dwarf,” Fenris growls; Varric merely smiles goodnaturedly. 

“Peace, Broody. I’m not about to do anything that would hurt Blondie - or wreck you two getting together again. Am I to take it that when we finally get out of this shithole, you’re gonna sweep Blondie off his feet and carry him away to that mansion of yours?”

“If he is amenable, then yes,” Fenris nods slowly.

“Good,” replies Varric as he leans back, his smile broadening to a grin. “Blondie needs feeding up and Maker knows, some looking after. You be good to him now, you hear?”

Varric takes the first shift; Fenris takes the second. He sits beside Anders, one hand resting upon the sleeping mage’s hand as it rests upon his chest; the other hand is upon his sword, his eyes watchful and alert.

***

Anders awakens with a gasp from a nightmare of the hunger demon slowly draining his life away; he can feel its grasp upon him, unclean and insidious as it feeds upon his fear and his very life essence. He is upon the verge of screaming when a hand tightens upon his own. 

“Anders.”

Fenris is leaning over him, holding his hand, regarding him with concern. “You are safe. I have you. Nothing and no-one will hurt you.”

“F-fenris?” he breathes.

The elf lays aside his sword and leans down to gently brush a stray strand of hair out of his eyes; Anders stares up at him, not moving.

“What are you thinking?” rumbles Fenris quietly as he gazes down at the mage.

“That I’m dreaming and this isn’t real,” Anders confesses, his voice hushed. “That I’m going to wake up in a minute and none of this will really have happened. That....” His voice breaks a little. “That you'll still hate me.” He turns his face away, his eyes stinging, throat tight. 

“ _Amatus_ , I swear that this is real. You are not dreaming. You are really here, awake; and I am real, and this is truly my hand touching you,” replies the elf as he gently squeezes Anders’ hand and strokes the side of his face gently with his other hand before turning Anders’ face gently but firmly back towards him. “And I do not hate you.”

Anders stares up at him, scarcely daring to breathe. There's something in Fenris’ eyes - something gentle and warm that Anders has not seen since before he found Fenris’ hand around his heart. Something he'd thought he would never see again. He wonders if Fenris sees the same thing in his eyes. 

Fenris gently trails his fingers down the side of his face, and Anders turns his head a little into the touch. Closing his eyes, he kisses the palm of Fenris’ hand, and hears Fenris give a soft gasp - and then Fenris turns his face back again. 

There is warm breath upon his face and then he feels lips brush against his - soft, warm, gentle, tentative. His eyes fly open and he stares into Fenris’ impossibly-green eyes for a moment before he lifts his arms to drape them around the elf's neck, eyes drifting closed again as he tilts his head and his lips part in silent invitation. 

He moans quietly as Fenris deepens the kiss; he yields willingly as he feels the elf slide an arm around his shoulders, feels the press of Fenris’ body against his own, the elf's other hand sliding down Anders’ body towards his groin and he arches into the touch - wanting, craving, _needing_ this like he needs air itself. He is lightheaded and giddy. 

The sound of Varric clearing his throat brings him back to awareness of where they are; he opens his eyes as Fenris pulls away slightly to glare at the dwarf, though he doesn't relinquish his hold on Anders. 

“I'm glad to see you two finally kissing and making up - but perhaps you should wait until we're on the surface to ravish Blondie, elf,” says Varric. 

Fenris sits up, bringing Anders with him as he wraps his other arm around the blond apostate possessively and growls - actually _growls_ \- at Varric. 

“Easy, elf,” says the dwarf with a smile. 

“It's alright,” Anders says breathlessly. “We can wait for that. But...” Fenris turns his head and Anders gazes into his eyes again. “Promise me there _will_ be ravishing at some point?” he asks. Varric chuckles, but Fenris’ eyes have softened. 

“Yes, mage, there will be ravishing,” he promises. 

Anders gazes at Fenris’ lips, red and a little swollen from their kiss. He closes the distance between them. “Kiss me again,” he murmurs against those lips; and he closes his eyes as Fenris complies, stealing his breath away. 

He has dreamed of this for so long. He never thought it would happen here, like this - in the Deep Roads, of all places. He'd feared it would never happen. But Fenris’ arms are around him; the elf has claimed his mouth and all Anders can do is submit - willingly, gladly. He is aware of Varric’s eyes upon them, but he doesn't care. Let the dwarf be a witness to this long-awaited union - nothing matters but that he and Fenris are finally kissing. 

They finally part for breath, both panting slightly, Anders feeling dizzy. Fenris presses his forehead against Anders’ and stares into his eyes. 

“I am yours,” he whispers. 

Anders doesn't trust himself to speak. He longs to say the words, _I love you_ , but he can't get the words past the sudden lump in his throat, his eyes filling with glad tears. 

“Anders?” murmurs Fenris, sudden worry in his eyes. 

“Happy,” Anders manages to gasp out. He buries his face against Fenris’ neck and breathes in the very scent of him as he shudders with a brief sob not quite choked back in time. 

“Foolish mage,” rumbles the elf; but Anders can hear the fondness in his voice as he gently rubs Anders’ back. And then Anders is really crying, his body racked with sobs as he clings to Fenris, unable to contain his tears. 

Fenris continues to rub his back, making soothing noises as Anders cries quietly until finally the flood of tears has ceased, leaving Anders feeling wrung out and exhausted. Fenris lays him back down gently upon the bedroll. 

“Rest, now,” murmurs the elf. “You are still exhausted.”

It's true; he is utterly exhausted, drained still, his mana barely half replenished. But as Fenris sits up again, Anders catches hold of his wrist. 

“Don't leave me!” he gasps, fearfully. Fenris smiles down at him. 

“I am not going anywhere, mage,” he answers. “Sleep now.”

And he does; drifting back into restful sleep. If dreams trouble him, he does not remember them.


	20. What has magic touched?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unpleasant return, and understanding comes at last.

The journey back to the surface is uneventful, much to their thankfulness. Anders feels more himself with every footstep they take away from the thaig and towards the light. Their pockets and Anders’ pack are full of gems, gold and loot, and Varric, Hawke and Fenris are carrying sacks of treasure. Varric has promised to hire trustworthy workers to fetch the rest to the surface; Hawke will be wealthy enough to reclaim the Hightown estate gambled away by her uncle. 

Most of all though, she's looking forward to seeing her sister again, and seeing the look on their mother's face when she shows her the gold and jewels. 

Anders is most looking forward to daylight, fresh air - and Fenris making good on a certain promise. They sleep practically entwined together now, and walk close together - fingers lightly brushing, exchanging looks from time to time. Varric teases them good-naturedly, but though Fenris growls, in truth they take it for what it is - the genuine pleasure of a good friend who is happy for them both.

Anders can hardly believe his luck. He has never been happier in his life. 

And then they reach Gamlen’s house in Lowtown, and Anders can feel his heart stop as the door opens and two templars step out, Bethany dwarfed between them, her hands in chains. 

And behind them, Knight Captain Cullen. 

Anders can't breathe. He's aware of Fenris touching him, his low voice, but the words don't register. He can't move, can't think, frozen in place as Hawke throws herself forward, shouting something. 

Leandra crying. It reminds him - memories.... 

His mother, weeping, begging. He is thirteen again, heavy iron manacles weighing down his young arms, terrified. His father, angry.

And at any moment Anders knows - he _knows_ , beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Cullen will turn any moment and recognize him. His back burns with remembered pain. 

He swallows down the instinctive, frightened whimper that rises to his lips and reaches for his staff as a fierce, almost blinding anger rises within him to war with the stark terror at sight of the familiar flaming sword on the templar armour. For a moment there is only the white heat of fury as he remembers the last time he looked upon templars, remembers the light in Karl’s eyes dying as he cradled him in his arms and he thinks _no, not her, they will never take another mage as they took him!_

He blinks as he realises Fenris and Varric have moved oh-so-casually to stand in front of him, obscuring him from view protectively. He’s aware of Hawke, swearing, frustrated yet powerless to prevent the templars taking her sister away; aware, too, of her mother's pleading and the knowledge that Hawke, Varric and Fenris are all that stand between him and Cullen - and that a death sentence awaits Anders should the templars capture him. He tries to push past Varric regardless, but the dwarf might be carved from stone for all that Anders can move past him.

Fenris glances over his shoulder at Anders, his green eyes fierce and angry, making it clear that he will not allow Anders to endanger himself.

They can only watch as Bethany is led away, but Hawke’s eyes are hostile and angry, her body tense, hands clenched into fists that want to hurt the men that are taking her sister from her. She has already lost her father, her brother. Now, her sister too? 

Anders can only stand still, trembling in fear and anger, hidden behind Fenris, Varric holding him back from doing anything so foolishly chivalric such as flinging himself forward into undoubtedly futile combat against the templars. He’d do it though; do it in a heartbeat if it wouldn’t mean certain death for him - and possibly Bethany as well. His heart is racing; he becomes barely aware of what’s going on around him, a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He is hyperventilating, lips and fingers tingling. He is righteous, furious anger. He is stark, sheer pants-wetting terror.

He becomes aware slowly that Hawke’s hands are upon his shoulders. She's talking softly to him, gently guiding him into the house. 

“Anders, it's alright. They're gone. You're safe.”

Safe. He's safe. That seems somehow unfair, when Bethany can’t be safe. He knows - oh, Maker, how he _knows_ , the dangers that a mage faces in any Circle but this one? The Gallows? Maker, what has Bethany ever done to deserve this?

The same he has: merely to be born a mage.

Hawke is crying - fierce, angry tears. Leandra is weeping for her youngest daughter, even as she is coming forward to lead him in. They couldn't save Bethany from the Circle, but they've saved him - and he feels so, so guilty. 

Gamlen is uncharacteristically silent. 

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!” Anders is crying; crying in sheer relief that he's still free, and in guilt that Bethany is not. Guilt that he did not leap forward to protect her, to fight. Sweet, gentle Bethany who was so kind to him. She doesn't deserve this. He can barely think straight; feels sick to his stomach at thought of what Bethany will experience, as adrenaline leaves his system.

Briefly, the wild, irrational urge takes him to run after the templars and beg them to take him instead of Bethany. He isn’t aware he’s taken a step towards the door until Hawke has wrenched his face towards her and is glaring fierce anger at him, blue eyes blazing brighter than spirit fire and he feels Fenris’ arms wrapped tightly around him as he trembles.

“Anders, no!” Hawke growls fiercely through her angry tears. “You know what they’d do - they’ll kill you and Bethany would still be in their hands! You don’t deserve that death, any more than Bethany deserves this! We're going to get her out, I swear!”

He falls limp and surrenders. He has to believe her. If anyone can get Bethany out of the Circle, it's Hawke. 

***

He is subdued as Fenris leads him back to the mansion. He is exhausted after his panic attack and the rush of blind anger; full of grief and guilt and heartache for Hawke and Leandra. This is not the homecoming any of them had envisaged; it is hard to take pleasure in the riches they have returned with, knowing Bethany cannot share in them. Hawke and her mother can only imagine with dread what awaits their sister and daughter; Anders _knows_. It is written in his skin in pain and fear. 

And Fenris knows too. He knows each scar upon Anders’ body almost as intimately as his own scars. 

There is no ravishing. Anders cries himself to sleep in Fenris’ arms. 

***

It takes Anders several days to slowly pull himself back together again. The extended period of time below ground, the stress - emotional, physical, psychological - of the entire Deep Roads expedition, followed by what greeted them on their return to Hawke’s home and the very real terror that the templars would see him, claim him, take him back to the Gallows - the prospect of being made Tranquil at the very least, but the very real risk the templars might just decide he’s too much trouble and outright hang him - and the uncharacteristic blind, furious rage that had possessed him has all caught up to him at once and for the first couple of days he’s not much more than a dazed mess.

He sleeps mostly, those first few days; his body enforcing upon him the rest he lacked at long last.

Fenris is quietly patient as Anders slowly starts picking up the mental pieces of himself. By unspoken agreement, neither addresses the issue of what has happened between them. Fenris, it seems, is wary of letting the antagonism that marked the start of their journey into the Deep Roads mar their long-overdue reunion.

It is Fenris who finally takes the plunge and decides to finally address the bronto in the room they’ve been tiptoeing around.

Anders awakens with the dawn, as has become habit to him since he’d fled the mansion several month ago. He opens his eyes slowly and stretches, only half-awake really at best. The bed is soft and comfortable; far nicer than the hard cot he has grown used to, down in his Darktown clinic. Maker, but he’s missed this. It’s going to be so hard to go back to that dismal place.

“Mage.”

He opens his eyes at that, and frowns slightly before rolling his head on the pillow to find the elf sitting across from what had been Anders’ chair. His... before it all went wrong. His eyes flick from the chair back to the elf, who is regarding him intently.

“Were you watching me sleep?” he asks. “I’m not sure whether to find that creepy or endearing.”

That earns him a frown. “Mage, we must talk.”

Uh oh. Here it comes. Fenris is going to tell him he’s changed his mind... order him to get out. Or worse. His eyes flick down to the elf’s hands, nervously. Fenris isn’t wearing his armour - no razor-tipped gauntlets; Anders knows only too well however that the elf has no need of sword or gauntlets to hurt or kill him.

“Mage... _Anders_ ,” the elf huffs. “I will not harm you. But we must talk. Of... this thing between us.”

“Thing?” echoes Anders. Maybe he should get out of bed; he feels rather at a disadvantage lying here. Vulnerable.

He sits up, glad that he’s not lost the habit of sleeping in shirt and pants. There was a time when he slept almost naked - back when he lived here. Before everything that has come between himself and the elf.

He swings his legs out from beneath the covers and sits there for a moment, facing the elf, then moves to his chair. He glances to the elf, hesitant, then sits.

“I’ll... I’ll get my stuff together and move back to the clinic today,” he begins, unable to keep the nervous, apologetic note out of his voice. Fenris’ frown deepens, and he hurries on. “I’ll be out of your hair soon - thank you for letting me stay this long, but I know you want -”

“Mage, what are you talking about?”

That brings Anders up short. His mouth gapes for a moment before he’s able to find his tongue. “Weren’t - weren’t you about to tell me I have to leave?” he finally manages in a small voice. The elf shakes his head slowly.

“What gave you that idea, mage?”

Anders laughs nervously. He doesn’t mean to; it just bubbles up out of him. He claps a hand over his mouth a little too late, eyes widening as the elf scowls at him. “Sorry, I’m sorry!” blurts Anders, shrinking back in the chair to press his spine against the faded cushions, even though Fenris hasn’t taken a step towards him.

The green eyes are studying him intently still, and it finally comes to Anders that the elf is... worried. The frown is one of concern, he realises belatedly as Fenris leans forward to rest a hand on Anders’ knee. It is warm, comforting; Anders stares down at it for a moment, before lifting his eyes to meet Fenris’ gaze.

“What are you afraid of, Anders?” asks Fenris quietly. The silence stretches between them.

“You,” Anders finally whispers. “That - that what happened in the Deep Roads - you and I... that... that it was only temporary, and that you’ve changed your mind. I can’t forget your hand around my heart. Nothing the templars did was ever as painful as that.”

Fenris withdraws, a look of regret and remorse in his eyes. Anders instantly misses the warmth of his hand and has to quell the urge to reach out and catch Fenris’ hand in his own; instead he stays still, not daring to move.

“I was angry,” replies the elf softly. “You deceived me. You had not told me that you are a mage, though it seems everyone else knew apart from me.”

“Not - not _everyone_ ,” Anders whispers.

“Anders, what I said in the Deep Roads....” begins Fenris, then sighs. “I told you the truth. I do not hate you.”

“That’s... not all you said,” Anders murmurs. “You called me -”

“ _Amatus_ ,” Fenris nods. “It means -”

“Beloved,” Anders finishes for him. “You said -”

“- I am yours,” Fenris finishes for him in turn. Anders can’t quite hold back a little giggle; this time, Fenris merely smiles at him. “Mage....”

“Anders,” breathes the apostate. “Call me Anders.”

“Anders,” murmurs the elf, and Anders feels himself melting a little, inside. “ _Amatus_ ,” Fenris adds, and Anders can’t help himself. He slips from the chair and falls to his knees at Fenris’ feet. He stares up into the elf’s eyes.

“Don’t send me away,” he pleads. “I - I don’t think I could bear it if -”

He falls silent as Fenris lays a finger against his lips. “Anders, I would not see you leave my side,” he rumbles softly before sliding a hand into Anders’ loose, sleep-mussed hair; the mage slides his eyes closed and can’t quite restrain the small whimper that escapes his lips.

The whimper that is swallowed up as Fenris leans forward to claim his lips in a soft kiss. The whimper becomes a moan that is silenced as the elf’s tongue swipes across Anders’ lips and he parts them to allow the kiss to deepen. He feels Fenris’ other hand slide around to cup the back of his head; he is held in place, captive yet content to be so, his hands hanging loose at his sides.

When Fenris finally draws away for breath, Anders opens his eyes to stare trustingly up at him.

“I love you,” he says softly.

“Anders....” begins Fenris; it’s Anders’ turn to silence him with a finger.

“No, let me finish,” he says, more firmly. “I love you. You hurt me, you terrified me - still do, really. You could kill me so easily and yet - I love you. You have no idea how much it hurt, being apart from you, thinking that you hated me. When you finally showed up in my clinic and I realised you were only there because Hawke brought you - Maker, that hurt so much, when the first words out of your mouth weren’t even my name. When you say ‘mage’, it’s like you’re calling me a _thing_. That I’m not even worthy of a name. It _hurts_ , Fenris.” He can feel tears rising up, his eyes stinging, but he presses on.

“You _hate_ magic. When I finally woke after collapsing on your bed, the first thing I heard was the hate in your voice as you and Hawke talked about killing a magister. Me, a mage, waking up to hear that I was at the mercy of someone who hated mages. Maker, Fenris, what was I to do? I was sick, hurt; I’d just escaped the Gallows after a _year_ in solitary confinement, where my only company was the Gallows mouser or the templars when they brought my food - or decided I needed further punishment.” He shudders; and Fenris’ hands slip from his head to lower to his arms, trying to draw Anders into his embrace. Anders resists.

“No - no, let me finish,” he insists. “I - I have to tell you this. You were angry that I deceived you; I’m trying to explain _why_.”

“Anders... a whole year?” whispers Fenris; there is horror and sympathy in his eyes. “What had you done to deserve that?”

“Nothing!” cries Anders, feeling the tears slip free to roll down his cheeks as he clenches his hands into fists. “That’s just it! I did _nothing_ to deserve that, except to be born with magic! I didn’t ask for this, any more than I asked for the colour of my eyes or my hair or - or the shape of my nose! Fenris, this is who I _am_ , and they hated me for it! And I woke and knew that if you knew what I really was, you’d hate me for it too!” He stares up at the elf and he can’t repress the sob that escapes his throat. “Can you blame me? Was I so wrong?”

Fenris stares down at him, and finally shakes his head slightly. “No,” he admits. “I do not think so. And... for that, I am sorry. I can see now that I have been wrong - about this, and about many things.”

He sighs, and tentatively lifts a hand to stroke Anders’ cheek; Anders’ leans into it, unable to check the tears running down his face or the ragged sobs that shake his whole frame.

“I searched for you,” continues Fenris. “For months, I searched. And every templar I saw, I wondered if they were the ones who had whipped you. Who had - had tortured you. Who had r-”

Anders shakes his head at Fenris, his eyes widening slightly, begging him silently to stop. Fenris checks himself, falls silent for a moment, then gently wipes the tears from Anders’ cheek with his thumb. “Forgive me,” he whispers. “I knew I’d been so wrong. Everything I’d taken for granted, I questioned. I had only known pain and humiliation at the hands of magisters; this lyrium was carved into my skin by blood magic, the pain wiping away all memory of who I was before.”

It is Anders’ turn to stare wide-eyed with shock and horror.

“Yet it was hard to reconcile the evil of the magisters and what they had done to me, with what I had known of you,” Fenris goes on, gently stroking Anders’ hair with a sad yet fond look. “You were gentle, no evil to you at all. You had been wounded terribly, as I had; you had suffered enough that I thought you an escaped slave. When finally you used your magic, it was to heal me - and you have only ever used it to heal or to shield me. And unlike my old master Danarius, your magic... Anders, my brands burn when touched by any magic save yours. Your magic is peaceful, soothing, healing. I found it hard to reconcile all I had known of mages with what I knew of you.”

Anders swallows, his throat dry. “I - I knew your brands hurt to use them,” he confesses. “Every time you activate them, I can _feel_ you as this... ball of pain, and... and I want to help, to heal, but -”

Fenris smiles at him gently. “You cannot,” he finishes quietly. “I know. There is nothing you can do for me.” He sighs. “I wish my eyes had been opened sooner. And that the knowledge that magic need not be evil or painful had not come at the expense of what we might have had together - or that it would only be after I had hurt you so terribly.” He curls his free hand into a fist which glows, briefly. “What has magic touched that it does not spoil, after all?” he continues as the light dies. “And I was wrong.”

“You - you said, what we _might_ have had,” Anders begins slowly.

“I would like to see if perhaps we might still have that,” nods Fenris. “If... if you would be willing... Anders.”

“I want to,” Anders confesses.

“As do I,” replies Fenris. “Anders... may I....” He leans forward.

“Yes,” breaths Anders. “Oh, yes.”

Fenris rises, drawing Anders with him; willingly, Anders allows himself to be led to the bed. When Fenris pushes him down onto it, he lays back obediently, lifting his hips so that Fenris can slide his pants off. As Fenris pushes his own pants down far enough to free his cock, Anders spreads his legs.

Fenris takes him, gently, deeply. When finally Anders comes, it is with a silent cry, body shuddering beneath the elf.

He weeps afterwards, and the tears are cleansing, healing. He curls up in Fenris’ embrace, safe at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it - we're finally at the end! It's taken me a little longer to finish this than I'd planned, but if you've stayed right to the end then thank you! Your comments and kudos have all been very welcome.


End file.
